


THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST

by later2nite



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/later2nite/pseuds/later2nite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin's journey - Time frame fluctuates between 3 distinct periods in his life: his childhood, his years in New York City, and the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - PROLOGUE

[ ](http://s1121.photobucket.com/user/later2nite/media/e2b9ee0f-f06a-4088-9d28-daaa4d7ced47_zps64af1dd4.jpg.html)

(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - PROLOGUE

"Brian, you're destroying my flow." You whisper the words without turning your head, lengthening a stroke of your brush on the canvas in front of you until it matches the one in your dream. 

"Your flow?" He's in no mood. "It's two in the goddamned morning, Justin. You and your flow should be in bed. Blowing me."

You'll blow him when you finish working, but for now, he feels woefully neglected. You suspect he's jealous. Jealous of a painting. You'd laugh if you weren't preoccupied with mixing a touch of ash gray into the crimson. 

You don't stop blending until you see the color of despair.

\--------------------

_"POOR IS THE PUPIL WHO DOES NOT SURPASS HIS MASTER." - Leonardo da Vinci_

 

You know you're meant for bigger and better things when your kindergarten teacher calls your parents in for a talk. 

"I'm afraid we have a problem, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. Justin doesn't seem to be interested in anything other than finger painting."

Later that night, you fold the top back on the box of 64 Crayola crayons your mom's just given you, fascinated by the variety of color. Searching for your tablet of blank white paper, you can't wait to recreate the children in vibrant snowsuits you see on their way to school each morning. Thinking they look like big huggable jelly beans, you giggle.

"Why can't he go outside and play with the other kids, Jen? Stop encouraging him to sit in the house with his crayons all day!" Your dad's problem seems to be directly related to your latest drawing affixed to the fridge.

Your mom's having none of it, though, proud of the fact that your coloring books go mostly ignored as you much prefer to make your own pictures. "Look at this purple he used."

Your mom is your hero.

\--------------------

New York City brims with humanity, its boundless energy welcoming you in, eager to see what you're made of. Determined to succeed from the moment your plane touches down, you're reminded yet again of the age old saying you've adopted as a personal motto: Uplifting art arises from suffering. 

You figure you've got a lock on that department, armed with enough resources to make art so uplifting it'll float away if you don't bolt it down. You're going to choreograph a ball, compose a symphony, direct an epic film.

But first you need to find your way to the East Village. 

\--------------------

It's two forty-five when you finally wipe the paint from your palette knife. You glance at the half-finished canvas in the corner of your attic studio and struggle to cast off the gloom, waiting until you're good and ready to tiptoe down Britin's creaky stairs and join your husband in bed. 

Blowing him into oblivion at the crack of dawn, you lick your lips and settle in for a little more shut-eye while he heaves his breath in and out. "Wake me when you get it up again, old man. Don't think you're leaving this house till you fuck me." 

"Hey, you're pushing thirty, Sunshine. That pretty face of yours is gonna age like Robert Redford's did if you don't start keeping some decent hours. Roll over."

You're not surprised when he proceeds to rim and ram you as if he were a teenager again, your seemingly offhand remark anything but. You curl up under the comforter when he shuffles out of bed, thankful for small indulgences like sleeping as long as you please after he heads for the office each morning. 

Not intending to budge until noon, you admire your partner's still-perfect backside before it disappears into the shower. "Brian? Bring ice cream home tonight."


	2. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER ONE

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(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER ONE

 

Arriving at your destination much later than you should have, thanks to confusing subway routes through unfamiliar territory, you pray to fuck you've finally found the place where you can crash. Letting out a heavy sigh, you compare the building's address with the one on the crumpled paper in your hand, only hoping you're not waking Daphne's friend when you ring the buzzer for 317. He'd been jovial enough on the phone after your plane landed, directing you to his little corner of the world and assuring you that getting there was easy, but that was two hours earlier.

It's an unexpected female voice that greets you, jarring you from thoughts of fluffy pillows, warm duvets, and Brian's body wrapped around yours. "Yes?" it calls through the panel, one of the grunge bands whose popularity soared when you were in grade school blaring in the background.

"Uh, I'm sorry. I must have the wrong apartment number." You drop your duffel bag on the ground and reach into your pocket. Rechecking Daphne's scrawl, you read 317 once again.

"Justin?" 

You look up. "Yes, I'm Justin. Is Josh there?" Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you hurry into the building when the gate unlatches. The elevator's seen better days. You hope it gets you to the third floor safely.

You can't mistake the door you're looking for, finally placing Kurt Cobain's guttural delivery of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as it blasts from behind it into the hall. When it swings open on your third knock, an attractive, aging hippie is smiling at you. Well, you guess by her attire you've come face-to-face with a real live hippie. The only reference you have to go by is ancient footage you've seen of Woodstock. The pungent aroma of weed wafting up your nostrils supports your theory. 

"There you are! We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost!" Her smile widens while she checks you out from head to toe. Subtlety not included.

"I, um, didn't really know where I was going." You swipe a hand through your hair and glance at your watch. "Josh said it was easy to find, but, uh, is he here?"

"He'll be back in a few. He's out on a beer run." She waves the bottle in her hand at you and winks. "Come on in."

"Thanks." You still have no idea whom you're talking to. Taking in the modest space, you unload your bag on a chair while she flits off to the kitchen, graciously accepting the last beer when she comes back. You're too tired to fight as she pulls you down on the sofa with her. 

"So, you're from Pittsburgh, huh?" She kicks off her shoes and gets comfy by your side. "You're gonna love the East Village art scene." Her knee touches yours when she lays her hand on your thigh.

You'd kill to lie down before the sun rises, but the couch will probably double as your bunk. And she seems to be firmly planted on it. Stifling a gaping yawn, you miss your side of Brian's bed with a passion. "I just need a little time to figure out the city."

Reaching for the joint in the ashtray, she relights it and nods at the CD player. "Nirvana. Crying shame about Cobain, don't you think?" She takes the first hit and offers you some. 

You go back. Way back. "I was like eleven when he died. No, that's okay." The last thing you want to do is get high with someone you don't know. 

How fucking far does Josh have to go to find beer?

\--------------------

Your eyes are already acclimated to the darkness when you enter your studio in the middle of the night. Stealing quietly out of your sleeping husband's arms, you were somehow drawn up to the attic, concluding a very long time before that fighting the haunting vision never works. Obediently, you've given yourself over to its power. 

Locking yourself in, you hesitantly approach the easel in the corner while the painting beckons from under its cover. You unveil your work in progress and regard it with a critical eye. The perspective's a little off, but you need to create the shade you'd seen in your dream before it fades from view. You pick up a clean palette and three tubes of pigment, setting off to chase the color of hopelessness. 

Soon buried in your work, time has no meaning as you slide further and further away, losing pieces of yourself as you go. 

\--------------------

"Dad! Dad! Guess what?" You scamper out to the driveway when your father gets home from work, clutching the spelling test you'd aced earlier that afternoon in your hand. Jumping up and down, you can't wait to show it to him.

"What have you got there?" He ruffles your hair as he takes it from you, smiling when he sees the large red A+ marked on the top. "Wonderful, Justin! Mrs. Baker even gave you a gold star. Has Mom seen this?" He grabs his briefcase from the car and heads into the house with his little blond shadow in tow.

"Yeah. She doesn't feel good, though. I don't like that baby in her tummy. It makes her throw up and go to bed and be sad." 

"You mean she doesn't feel well." He loosens his tie as you walk into the kitchen together. "Why don't we surprise her and fix dinner tonight? You want to help me? I bet that'll make her happy." Tacking your perfect spelling test next to the grocery list on the bulletin board, he beams down at your six-year-old self. "I'm proud of you, son. I think we should put every A you bring home right here on this board. What do you think?"

You think there won't be enough room for the grocery list before long, First Grade the easiest thing you've ever dealt with in your life. "Sure, Dad! I'll be right back!" 

He doesn't know your book bag is full of homework papers and tests that are decorated with Mrs. Baker's felt-tipped red A's and gold star stickers. "Just be quiet up there. Your mom needs her rest."

You really don't like that baby in her tummy.

\--------------------

"Jesus, Aunt Meg! What the hell are you doing?" 

You snap your head toward the door just in time to catch the horrified look on your new roommate's face. 

Evidently aghast at his overly-forward relative, who's spent the past thirty minutes shedding every inhibition she's ever possessed, he drops a six-pack on the counter and glares at her. "Button up your shirt!" 

"Joshua." 

"And open some windows!" Airing out his apartment, he finally makes it over to you and shakes your hand. "Hi. I'm Josh. Sorry about this." 

"Justin." You stand to meet him, more than a tad relieved to be rescued. 

Josh spies your duffel bag on the chair and turns back to his aunt. "You didn't even show him his room? I'm sure Justin's exhausted! God, I'm sorry," he apologizes to you again. "My brother moved out last week, so you're in luck. It's small, but there's an empty bedroom."

"Great! I thought I might be sleeping on your couch until I find a place of my own."

Meg scouts around for her shoes, bummed that the party's over. "We were just getting to know each other, weren't we, Justin? I was behaving myself. Tell him."

"Right . . ." Collecting her paraphernalia from the coffee table and depositing it in her hands, Josh shoots you another regretful look while he ushers her to the door. "Come on. I'll help you home. Say good night, Aunt Meg."

"You're no fun, Joshua. See you boys later." 

You begin to understand that omen for what it is when he walks her across the hall and waits while she fumbles with the key to her own apartment. "This is perfect," you tell him when he returns and shows you around. Thanking him again, you promise to be more human in the morning, hitting the mattress in your tiny room the second he makes himself scarce.

Maybe leaving Pittsburgh at ten p.m. for parts unknown wasn't the most well thought-out plan in the history of plans, but you booked the last flight of the day for a reason. You think about your long good-bye in Brian's loft and muster a sleepy grin, your ass still thanking you for the proper send-off he made sure you received.

\--------------------

_"THE EMOTIONS ARE SOMETIMES SO STRONG THAT I WORK WITHOUT KNOWING IT. THE STROKES COME LIKE SPEECH." - Vincent Van Gogh_

 

You don't know how long he's been banging on the door and calling your name, but the muddy din outside your studio somehow brings you back. 'Open up, Justin!' slowly registering as his command, the alarm in his tone tips you off to what you'll find when you do.

Setting your palette on the table, you drag your knuckles across your tear-stained cheek and rub your forehead, willing yourself to get it together. You hide your work under its snow white sheet and start to back away, Brian's impatience robbing you of your normal recovery time. When you open the door, you avoid his eyes at all costs. "Let me just rinse—" 

"What the fuck, Justin?!" 

You don't finish your thought because Brian's are too urgent. 

"The door was locked. Didn't you hear me? It's three-thirty. I woke up alone, and . . . Hey, look at me." He takes your face in his hands. "What is it?"

"Go back to bed, Brian." 

That's the one thing he has no intention of doing. "Talk to me. Come on. What is it?" He crushes you into his chest, his soft breath tickling the side of your neck.

If you hadn't loved this man with all your heart for almost half your life, you'd be embarrassed by the trail of snot staining the front of his tee shirt where your nose is pressed. You release your brushes and knives from your grip as he reaches for them, slumping to the floor in a heap when he walks to the sink and turns on the water. The heels of your hands dig into your eye sockets while he carefully cleans your instruments and lays them out to dry, only falling to your sides when you feel your husband's lanky frame lowering down next to you. 

"It's okay." He gathers as much of your drooping form as he can hold, his chin settling squarely on top of your head. "I'm here."


	3. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER TWO

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(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER TWO

 

You need, well, _everything._ You'd crammed your duffel bag with clothes, toiletries, sketchbook, and pencils, which seems to be roughly three days' worth of stuff when you wake up and empty it into a drawer. Ideal if you'd been going on a long weekend. 

Fortunately, before you left Pittsburgh you'd packed linen, pillows, and towels in two large boxes and the rest of your clothes, computer, and art supplies in several more. You'd mailed them to yourself at your New York address, figuring that was the easiest way to relocate your life. By early evening, you're pacing the floor and glancing out the window every ten minutes to check for the UPS truck because hey, you didn't pay through the nose for your shipment to arrive eighteen hours after you did for nothing.

You've used up half your sketchbook drawing detailed likenesses of Brian from memory by the time you're reunited with your belongings, the driver wheeling stack after stack of boxes up to your door on a dolly and disappearing as soon as he obtains your signature. Scooting them inside one at a time, you look forward to sleeping on your own sheets and having more than three shirts to choose from the next time you get dressed.

"Looks like Christmas. Or else the building's been converted into mini storage units while I was at work." 

You're partially hidden behind a mountain of cardboard when you hear your neighbor's friendly voice. "Meg. Hi." Stepping out of obscurity, you scratch the side of your head and smile. "My stuff finally got here. Oh, sorry." 

"Big move, isn't it?" She waits for you to clear a path to her door and unlocks it. Then she turns to face you again. "Justin, I want to apologize for last night. I don't usually drink that much. I didn't mean to . . . act so . . ." 

"No problem. Don't worry about it." Giving her a pass on the bizarre scenario she'd put you in just seems like the right thing to do. You push a few more boxes out of the middle of the hall and into your apartment. 

She's still there when you come back out. "Why don't you be my guest for dinner tonight? Let me make it up to you. I've had beef stew cooking in the Crock-Pot all day." Her flower child look's been slightly upgraded to boho-chic for work, the weirdness of your first meeting evaporating away. "Joshua used to have dinner with me all the time before he started working nights."

Your first instinct is to politely decline, although the mere mention of homemade beef stew makes your mouth water. Hanging around all day for the UPS guy prevented you from venturing out to find food, and you didn't want to just help yourself to Josh's sparsely stocked cupboards. "Well . . ." You raise one shoulder and scratch at the side of your head again. "I guess I could do that." 

"Good! How about a half an hour from now? Does that work for you?" 

"Yeah, sure! Thanks, Meg." You grab a pullover out of the last box you bring inside and wash your hands and face in the bathroom. With twenty minutes to kill before you can walk across the hall to a hot meal, you break down and eat a couple of crackers to tame your growling stomach. You promise you'll replace them in the morning, a trip to the nearest grocery store at the very top of your to-do list.

\--------------------

You carry a mug of steaming coffee up to the attic at eleven forty-five a.m., finally spurring your butt into gear. The quality time you'd spent in your sunny kitchen with your bacon and eggs and the morning paper was just what you needed, but after placating Lindsay and her gentle nagging, you suppose taking the entire day off is out. 

"Are you still thinking four pieces?" she'd inquired in that saccharine-sweet timbre she reserves for goading you into production. "Sidney's so excited. He's cleared the west wall for you."

You'd rolled your eyes at the phone. Inking the deal with Sidney Bloom to show exclusively in his Pittsburgh gallery has turned you into royalty as far as he and Lindsay are concerned, the name you'd made for yourself in New York their veritable cash cow. "Yeah, four pieces." You'd yawned and stretched and then yawned again. "I need a few more days, but they'll be ready in time for the opening. It's the fifteenth, right?"

"Yes, Justin, it's the fifteenth. I've got the framers coming out to your place on the tenth, though. That's okay, isn't it?"

You'd squinted at the clock above the breakfast nook. "Um, it's eleven thirty. How long does that give me?" Fucking with her has become somewhat of a game. You were loading your plate into the dishwasher when you heard her sigh.

"A week. It gives you a week. Tell me now if I should reschedule the opening."

"Relax, Lindsay." You'd laughed. "I'll be finished in time. Are you still using Thomas Brothers Framing?" Adam Thomas is the owner of one stellar ass, not to mention his remarkable deep-throating skills, both of which you and your husband have exploited together on more than one occasion.

Setting your coffee down on a work table, you eye the four canvases with their looming deadline in mind. You'll handily meet it. You might even throw in a fifth as a surprise. Never hurts to up the ante.

\--------------------

"Careful, honey. Put this arm over here." Your mom arranges you on your dad's easy chair and wedges the cushions under your elbows. Then she lays your baby sister in your lap and picks up the camera. Her terribly fat stomach is mostly gone, a small lump left in its place. 

You're happy because she's happy, not quite understanding what's so nice about the crying mess in your hands. "She's screaming again. Why can't she be quiet?"

"Here. Let's see if she wants her pacifier." Turning off the shrieks for a few minutes, your mother snaps a roll of film before she takes the tiny bundle back and feeds her. "Are you going to draw a picture of Baby Molly?" 

"What for?" You really like the new drawing paper and colored pencils she gave you this afternoon, but sometimes your mom has the craziest ideas.

\--------------------

"It smells great in here. Thanks again for inviting me." You step into Meg's homey apartment and instantly recognize the lived in look, macrame hanging plant holders, lava lamps, and other vestiges straight out of the seventies kind of comforting when you glance around.

"You looked hungry." She pats you on the back and closes the door before she goes to the kitchen and grabs a corkscrew out of the drawer. "I was just about to open a bottle of red. Would you like a glass?" 

A thousand warning signs flash in your head, an overabundance of exposed skin leading the pack. "Well, maybe just one." You don't want to come off as rude. Besides, you have an escape this time if things get out of control. 

"Go ahead and sit down." Meg gestures toward the table and busies herself with opening the burgundy and ladling up two bowlfuls of piping stew. 

Your eyes bug out of your head when you see the magazines scattered in front of you. "You read Art Forum?!"

"Sure. Doesn't everyone have a subscription to the best publication in the field?" She tosses them on the sofa and brings the bowls and wine glasses to the table, settling into the other chair.

"Thanks." You smile at her and dig in. Wondering just how much information she'd had on you the previous night when she referenced the East Village art scene, you begin to put two and two together. You look over at the couch. "So, um, do you have like every issue?" 

Meg peers at you and drinks some wine. "If you're asking whether or not I've read the review Simon wrote about you, the answer's who hasn't? Considering all the buzz it's generated in the art department here at NYU, I'm surprised you've waited this long to hit the Big Apple." She nods at your dropped jaw. "You're very humble, Justin. With a write-up like that, I was expecting a little attitude." 

"Simon Caswell? You know him?" You wipe the sneer from your face with a napkin. Thankful you didn't nix the alcohol when you had the chance, you lift your glass and take a big sip. "You know he's a cunt, right?" 

Peals of boisterous laughter indicate her agreement. "Come on! Tell me what you really think! It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Taylor!" Thrusting her arm out across the table, she gives you a firm handshake. 

"Sorry to be so crude, but his lecherous manner—" 

"Is well known," she jumps in. "Simon has a harem of young men at his beck and call. His stable of handsome blonds is impressive. I could tell you're his type the minute I saw you last night. I'm sure he'd love to add you to the fold."

"How do you know him anyway? NYU art department? What exactly do you do, Meg?"

"I work at the Grey Art Gallery." She holds the bottle of burgundy out toward you, pouring more for herself when you tell her you're fine. "I've been the director's personal secretary for years. We've gotten to know Simon from the guest lectures he presents every semester at the gallery for the art department's senior class."

"The Grey Gallery?!" Your head is swimming. "I've always wanted to visit NYU's fine arts museums. Grey has the largest collection, I think. Something like five thousand objects? I can't believe you work there!"

"Neither can I at times. I get to view hundreds of famous works every day. I pretty much lucked out, though." Meg starts to laugh again and nearly polishes off her second glass of wine. "My art sucks, but my art degree came in handy for something!" 

You can just imagine her stash making an appearance from some quaint little hiding place any time now. But that's not what makes you wince. 

"Of course, with your talent _and_ degree from PIFA, Justin, the art world is your oyster, isn't it?"

\--------------------

_"THERE ARE PAINTERS WHO TRANSFORM THE SUN INTO A YELLOW SPOT, BUT THERE ARE OTHERS WHO, THANKS TO THEIR ART AND INTELLIGENCE, TRANSFORM A YELLOW SPOT INTO THE SUN." - Pablo Picasso_

 

"Hey, Sunshine! Guess what your partner brought you?!" 

You're sitting on your bedroom terrace with a sketchpad and pencil when he gets home and scours the mansion looking for you. 

"Justin?"

"Up here with the sunset." It's all you have to call out, Brian walking through the French doors to join you soon after. "Hey." You look up as he leans over, your lips eagerly meeting his.

"Hey, yourself." He throws his suit jacket and tie back inside on the bed. Then he rolls up his shirtsleeves and climbs onto the chaise lounge beside you. "You okay?"

"Not really." 

He draws in a long anxiety-ridden breath and slips his arm around your shoulders. "Justin, I—"

"I need pink and gold," you cut him off. "This isn't working." Holding up the stub of graphite, you cherish the way he studies the horizon, wanting to see what you see.

"How many sunsets have you painted in your lifetime? All of them pink and gold. And orange and yellow and lavender. I've personally seen a hundred and sixty-two." 

"But none of them were this one." Your head dips to rest on his chest. "So what'd you bring me? And I hope it's Rocky Road this time."

"Butter Pecan. Sorry."

Your jeans and tee shirt litter the terrace floor when Brian comes back upstairs with the pint of ice cream and two spoons. "Care to relive our wild and adventurous youth?" You point to his chaise lounge and open the carton, setting the lid and the spoon you won't be needing on the low table between the chairs.

His clothes join yours in a matter of seconds. "You're not seventeen anymore, Sunshine. Sure you can still fold yourself into a pretzel like that?"

"Lie down. Let's find out." Straddling his thighs, dusk descends as you share spoonfuls of Butter Pecan and sensual kisses, his appreciation abundantly clear when twelve years haven't diminished your ability to contort yourself into a pleasure-giving vessel in the least. 

Afterward, he pulls your torso up flush with his and clamps his arms around your back. "Are you gonna talk to me yet, Justin?" 

"Brian." Closing your eyes, the sound of his beating heart fills your ears. "Don't do this. Not tonight."


	4. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER THREE

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(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER THREE

 

"Come on, Justin! You've been skirting the issue for days!" Your husband just won't let it go as he follows you into the laundry room, a fierce look of determination plastered all over his face. "Have you forgotten about reading me the riot act all those years ago for shutting you out? And now you're doing the same thing to me!"

"Brian, please. I can think of so many other ways to spend our Saturday." You throw a load of paint rags into the washer and measure the detergent in a cup. "Do we have to do this now?"

"When would you like to do it?" He folds his arms in front of his chest. 

"Never?" Setting the water temperature on cold, you start the washer and attempt to leave the room. You're left with no choice but to exhale loudly in aggravation when he becomes an immovable barrier in front of the door. "This is nothing like that." You meet his dogged stare. "I don't have cancer, and I'm not afraid you're going to leave me. I'm not doing the same thing to you at all." 

"No? You're not trying to handle this on your own?" 

Maybe you haven't been the most forthcoming in recent weeks, but it's not because you want to hurt or deceive him. You think it's more about self-preservation than anything else. 

"I just want to know what's going on up there." He places a hand on your shoulder, his stance softening. "Why you lock yourself in your studio during the middle of the night and sneak back into bed hours later as if you'd never been gone."

"Not . . . every night." You hang your head and look at your shoes. 

"You really freaked me out that time I found you sobbing." 

He may have a point. Memories of stirring Debbie's chicken soup and a pigheaded partner who'd rather have thrown you out of his life than level with you come back to bite you in the ass. "I'm sorry, Brian. I'm not meaning to shut you out. It's . . . it's just hard to talk about." You feel safe in his arms when he hugs you, sensing your resolve weakening.

"I'm here whenever you're ready." 

Hesitating only a moment more, you take his hand and walk out of the laundry room, crossing the service porch and heading for the back stairs. The ones that run all three flights up to the attic. "I've heard a picture's worth a thousand words." 

\--------------------

"And lastly, our Young Artist of the Month is a third grader in Mrs. Martin's class, Justin Taylor. In addition to this certificate of achievement, Justin will receive a coupon for a free Happy Meal, redeemable at any participating McDonald's restaurant in the greater Pittsburgh area." The principal of your elementary school calls you up to claim your prizes, handing them to you during the mid-morning awards assembly and politely clapping along with your fellow students and the parents who could make it. 

You're more impressed with winning a Happy Meal than the art accolade. Breaking into an ear-to-ear grin, you wave at your dad as he stands in the multipurpose room filming you with the newest state-of-the-art video camera Taylor Electronics is selling. "Do you think they'll give me an ice cream cone, too?" you ask your mom when the award winners are permitted to mingle with their families before it's time to go back to class.

"I don't know, honey. We'll have to see. I wonder what Daddy's talking to your P.E. teacher about."

You turn around and see him in a heavy discussion with Mr. Knowles while he packs the camera into its case. At eight years old, you're not oblivious to the fact that your dad would have liked it more if you'd just become your school's Young Sportsman of the Month instead.

\--------------------

"Yeah, I'm finding my way around a little better now. I hung out in Tompkins Square Park all morning. That place is amazing." You walk out of your room and head to the kitchen for a soda, bragging to Daphne on the phone about all the discoveries you've been making in New York. Mouthing hi to Josh while he slaps an assortment of cold cuts between slices of wheat bread, you reach into your side of the fridge and listen to Daph complain about her major crisis at work. You wait for a lull and then change the subject. "So, have you seen Brian lately? No, we haven't broken up! It's just different now. We're gonna work this long-distance thing out." Eyeing your roommate and his jumbo sandwich, you decide it's time for your own lunch. "I'll call you tomorrow, Daph, okay? I'm starving. Yeah, he's right here." You hand Josh your phone when she asks if she can yak at him for a minute.

You can't be accused of eavesdropping as you open the cabinet and scan through the groceries you'd bought. He's sitting only ten feet away from you at the dinette set, sweet-talking his way through the conversation with Daphne giggling so loudly that even you can hear her. They must have rekindled whatever they had going during that term she studied here in the city. You microwave your Cup-O-Noodles and plop down on the other side of the table just as Josh ends the call.

"Hey, I'm glad I don't have any classes today. I've been wanting to talk to you." He pushes a mound of NYU letterhead paperwork out of your way. 

"Yeah?" You're happy for them even if it's kind of strange that Josh is going to tell you about it instead of your best friend. 

He washes the last bite of his sandwich down with half a glass of milk and gets right to it. "I'm sure you can tell she has a problem. Never met a drop of booze she didn't like. Beer, wine, hard liquor. Anything she gets her hands on. She just doesn't know when to quit."

"What?!" You wrinkle up your forehead and stare at him. "Daphne doesn't drink. Well, no more than the rest of us. She doesn't have a problem."

"Not Daphne. I mean Aunt Meg." 

"Oh! Jesus, I thought you meant . . . Um, well, I did watch her go through a bottle of burgundy almost by herself when she had me over for dinner. I only had one glass, but she kept refilling hers while we talked. And we talked for a long time." 

"She insists it's nothing to worry about every time I bring it up, but it's getting worse. Like the first night she met you. She's totally embarrassed about drinking so much while she was over here waiting for you."

You shake your head and laugh. "I didn't even know who she was."

"She knew who you were, though. As soon as I told her Daphne's artist friend was going to be my new roommate and told her your name, she showed me the article and said all the art majors at school had been talking about you for weeks. I guess your story's encouraging because they're hopeful something like that could happen for them, too. Aunt Meg couldn't believe you were really going to move in with me."

You're not exactly sure why you find yourself grimacing. It could be that the mention of the review brings up thoughts of the critic who wrote it. Or maybe it's the pressure of learning from first Meg and now Josh that NYU's art department's been following your every move. Identifying with you for Christ's sake! It's more than a little daunting. "I didn't realize that I'd, um . . ." You scratch at your ear out of habit.

"Hell, yes, Justin! Your reputation precedes you! If it makes you feel any better, the business school doesn't have a clue who you are. Except for me. And that's only because of my aunt. God, I hope I can convince her to check out some AA meetings." Josh finishes his milk and glances at the forms he'd swept out of your way, remembering something he's supposed to tell you just before he gets up to toss his sandwich plate into the sink. "Aunt Meg said to give you these."

Skewing an eyebrow in curiosity, you look down as he pushes them back over to you. NEW YORK UNIVERSITY STUDENT ENROLLMENT PACKET is stamped on the top one.

\-------------------- 

"You can get all the pictures you want later, Jen. We have to leave now!" 

"But he looks so adorable in his Yankees uniform. Just one more." 

Your dad huffs and totes his toddler out the door to strap her into her car seat, a bit peeved that his family outing to the neighborhood park and ball field is getting off to such a hectic start. Signing you up for Little League after talking to your P.E. teacher, he thought taking you to practice was half the fun, making friends with the other fathers in the bleachers and cheering you on while you learned the fundamentals of America's favorite pastime. And now you're almost late for the first game.

"So are you ready to play, son?" He looks at you in the rearview mirror on the short drive to the park and makes sure you're paying attention. "Just remember, you have to throw with your right hand. The one you eat and draw and write with. The other one has your mitt on it. Don't throw with that one." 

"Okay." You nod at him even though the promised pizza at Chuck E. Cheese after the game is pretty much all you can think of.

"Oh, Craig, lighten up. Little League is supposed to be fun for the boys." Your mom smiles at you, reaching over the seat to hand your wailing sister a small toy out of her diaper bag.

Your coach is no fool, using you and Timmy Reynolds as bench warmers for eight innings of the game. He only sends both of you in at the bottom of the ninth because of some fairness to all players guideline he's held to abide by. "Justin! Justin! What are you doing?" he shouts when the ball just happens to roll up to your feet in the outfield.

You really don't know what all the fuss is about, picking it up with your left hand and hurling it back in with the same one. But first you have to wriggle out of your glove since you can throw so much better without it.

"What?!" your highly irritated dad screams to the pitcher's father while three pint-sized Kansas City Royals slide across home plate. "You've never seen an ambidextrous kid before?!"

\--------------------

_"I FOUND I COULD SAY THINGS WITH COLOR AND SHAPES THAT I COULDN'T SAY ANY OTHER WAY — THINGS I HAD NO WORDS FOR." - Georgia O'Keefe_

 

"The framers will be here on Monday. Maybe you can manage to take the day off?" 

"Monday. Hmm." Your husband squints off into the distance, mentally consulting his jam-packed calendar. "Sounds like a great day for an orgy to me!" He kisses the side of your face, standing with you in front of the five large paintings that will attract Sidney Bloom's buyers to your show faster than he and Lindsay can schmooze them into opening their checkbooks. "These are beautiful, Justin." 

"Thanks." You wish you had more to say, but now that you've brought him up here, you're not quite sure where to begin. "Brian, I . . . Maybe we should just . . ." 

"Although they weren't covered while you worked on them. It's that one, isn't it?" He points to the easel in the corner and then squeezes your hand in his.

"I don't even know why I started it. Something just takes a hold of me, and it doesn't let go until I mix it and dip my brush in it and splatter it into life. It's like I don't even have a choice, you know?"

"I get it. But the emotional tailspin you fall into when you barricade yourself in here at night worries me. What the hell are you fighting?" He's hit upon the very question to which you've given up all hope of finding an answer. 

You hold your upturned palm out toward the corner and gnaw on your bottom lip. "You won't be satisfied until you see for yourself, so go ahead."

"Justin."

Raising your clasped-together fingers up to your mouth, you kiss his before turning him loose. "Just don't expect me to hold your hand. I'm not gonna paint today, and I don't feel like getting sucked into the black hole on this perfectly nice morning." You turn away as he inches toward the easel of disaster, occupying yourself with taking an inventory of the pigment jars on the shelf above the sink. Daring to envision a best-case scenario where your partner quietly investigates and leaves it at that, you laugh to yourself and come to your senses. You know him. You're waiting for his gasp when he lifts the sheet and gets an eyeful.

"Jesus Christ! Justin, this is—"

"Gruesome? Depressing? Crazy-making? Take your pick." Rearranging cans of solvent for no earthly reason, you hear him mumble a string of profanity as he stares at the canvas and then lowers its cover again. 

Brian makes his way back to you and hugs you from behind. "That asshole never paid for what he did." Nuzzling the side of your neck, his voice breaks, barely a whisper. "To both of us." 

"Now do you see why I don't want to talk about it?" Waves of relief ripple through your body, all the hedging and equivocating finally over. "I feel vulnerable enough when I'm working on it. I don't want to go there when I'm not working on it."

"Come here." He nudges you around to face him, blinking away the moisture pooling on his eyelashes. "I thought we'd dealt with the bashing and all the trauma it caused. Closed that chapter of our lives. But the pain's still raw even now." Wrapping his arms around you, your husband's stature tilts down to rest on yours. 

You're transported to a place in time when physical and psychological limitations ruled your days, utterly unable to walk through a crowd of strangers without clinging to his side. It's been more than a decade since you've literally needed to lean on him. 

Maybe he needs to lean on you.


	5. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER FOUR

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(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER FOUR

 

You've known all along that locating a work space would be your biggest hurdle, but that doesn't really help when you're traipsing around the East Village and adjacent areas tracking down one disappointing lead after another. Refusing to let the poor results dampen your spirits, you tuck the classifieds into your messenger bag and light a cigarette, soon flopping down on the bench at a nearby bus stop to regroup. Inhaling a long drag of tar and nicotine, your dreams of taking the art world by storm are just as vivid as they'd been when you hit town a week earlier.

You smile when the scheduled bus pulls up in front of you to let its passengers off, an ad for the Grey Art Gallery splashed across its side deciding your next move on the spot. Of all the artistic riches New York City has to offer, this one's in your own backyard, its profusion of fine art just waiting to be explored. Pocketing the lighter still in your hand, you find yourself in front of the building on Washington Square East after a short hike, awed from the instant you step inside. 

"I'm sorry. Meg's not working today." The girl at the information desk looks up and peers at you through her thick glasses. "She called in sick. Again." She assumes you've never been there before when she sees you scanning through a couple of brochures from the display, suggesting you might want to take the guided tour that's slated to begin in ten minutes from the very spot where you're standing. "Billy's working the tours all this week. He's the best. Brings so much perspective from an artist's point of view. I think you'll really enjoy it."

Billy . . . Billy . . . You leaf through your mental file of well-known artists and nod, not wanting to sound ignorant in your field of expertise because you can't come up with anyone by that name who could be working at the Grey. "Too bad Meg's sick today." You go back to the original conversation while you wait. "She wanted me to say hi when I finally made it in. She knows I've been anxious to see this place ever since I moved here." Idly thumbing through a pamphlet, you hope it's nothing serious. "I'll check on her when I get home." 

"You live with Meg?"

"With her nephew. Her apartment's across the hall from ours." You don't know why this revelation causes the receptionist to study your face in detail, memorizing your features as if she were going to be tested on them tomorrow. 

"You're not . . . No, you couldn't be." Blinking twice, she adjusts her glasses and starts over. "Um, you're not Justin Taylor by any chance, are you? Oh, my God! You are!" She laughs when you confirm her suspicions. "I knew it! I'm Andrea, by the way." 

You wrinkle one side of your face and raise the same shoulder. "How do you . . .?"

"Billy! You're not gonna believe this!" Spotting him over your shoulder when he enters the lobby to collect his four o'clock guests, she hurriedly waves him over. "Guess who this is?" 

You're quite sure Billy's no famous artist when you lay eyes on him, willing to wager both he and Andrea are no older than you. Shaking his eager hand when she discloses your identity, you're already forming a hunch as to why they're so excited to be in your presence. "How do you guys know who I am?" you flat out ask. 

"Are you kidding? Everyone's talking about you in our circle. We've all read the review by now. So have you really uprooted yourself from Pittsburgh and come to New York to make it big?" 

You find Billy's enthusiasm and interest sincere, automatically downplaying the celebrity status he seems to think you inhabit. Starting out on his tour with a few other people who've gathered around, you learn that he's one of a handful of seniors in NYU's art department to have been offered the prestigious position of guiding first-time patrons through the gallery. 

You're inspired beyond measure by the smattering of works he points out, promising yourself you'll come back several more times and roam on your own until you've seen everything. Not surprisingly, your walk home is packed with budding concepts in desperate need of expression. On canvas. Soon. Which brings you back to square one as you think about the folded-up classifieds in your bag.

Your knocks on Meg's door go unanswered, but the malady that kept her from work is all too evident as soon as you step through yours. Sacked out on the sofa, her disheveled white sweater and turquoise calf-length gypsy skirt, along with the tangled tresses falling across her face, are dead giveaways. 

"She's out cold." Josh looks at you from his recliner in front of the TV. "She's probably been drinking since this morning. Stumbled over here an hour ago to tell me something and never made it off the couch."

You drop your messenger bag on the table and eye his aunt with compassion. "I went to the gallery after checking out a bunch of studios that won't work for me. The receptionist, um, Andrea said she'd called in sick."

"Yeah, she does that a lot. I wish she'd admit she's got a problem and get some help." 

"I've got a problem, okay? It's this splitting headache. Would one of you stop talking about me and get me an aspirin? Please?" Meg rubs the back of her neck and gingerly sits up, careful not to rattle her brain in the process. "How long have I been out?"

"Since five. I bet you feel like hell." Josh ignores the piercing glare she gives him.

"You know what, Meg? I think I can help." You go to the kitchen and start hunting for things. "My grandmother used to swear by this concoction she'd mix up every time she had a hangover." Pouring as many of the called-for ingredients as you can find into a large glass, you stir them vigorously with a spoon because you haven't seen a blender anywhere since you moved in. "Here. Drink this." Bouncing onto the sofa beside her, you mutter a quick 'sorry' when her body language indicates you're making her seasick.

She gets a whiff of the stuff and cringes. "This reeks, Justin! I don't know if I should thank you or smack you!" Draining the glass with a shudder and handing it back to you, she smooths out her clothes and pushes strands of unruly hair behind her ears. "So no luck finding a studio, huh?" 

"Not yet. I do like this one loft in SoHo. If I could have it all to myself. Three other artists living there are looking to make some cash by renting out a corner. Not exactly what I had in mind. I'm gonna keep looking, though." 

"Hmm." Meg's lone syllable is loaded with wisdom you've yet to pick up on. "Did you give him the enrollment forms, Joshua?"

Flipping through every channel his basic cable service provides, he settles on ESPN. "Yeah. They were on the table."

"Well, but . . . I didn't come here to . . ." You avoid the fact that the papers in question are currently lining the bottom of the small waste basket in your room. "Thanks for thinking of me, but I told you what happened. School and I just don't get along."

"Right. You told me about your partner and you teaming up to thwart that homophobic politician. An admirable feat. But don't you think the unique circumstances that led to your expulsion from PIFA shouldn't color your outlook on universities in general?" 

Fuck! You can't believe your alcoholic grandmother's elixir works this quickly, Meg clearly back among the land of the living. "I haven't really thought about it."

"You should."

"I know how to paint. I don't mean to sound arrogant, but what good will going back to school do me now?" 

"Ahhh." Another lone syllable. She understands that boys your age do best when they figure things out for themselves. "It's true you might not necessarily need more education to get where you're going, but what is it you _do_ need? Right now." 

You almost think you're cruising for a lecture, and then you suddenly get it. "Studio space! I'd have all the space I need if I went back to school, but . . . I don't know . . . "

"Free space. The art department seniors practically cakewalk through their last year at NYU. Come and go as they please. Work on anything they want. Didn't you say you were only a couple of credits shy of graduating when the shit hit the fan in Pittsburgh?"

"Well, I'd had two years done when the Stockwell thing blew up. Brian was always trying to talk me into going back. He even cheated on a bet one time so I'd have to do it. Then I got another year done before I went out to Hollywood to work on the movie."

Meg thinks about that for a minute. "So you could join the senior class here at NYU right away. That would solve your immediate working space problem, but the other benefits are nothing to scoff at. The networking, the connections, the exposure. It's a nurturing environment, designed to launch young artists into the art world to start their careers. In your case, you may not need a degree from NYU, but working toward it could be your ticket to success."

"Jesus, Meg! You better shut up. I just might take you seriously!"

She feels around under the sofa for her shoes, ready to make it back to her own apartment. "What was it Simon wrote? New York is waiting to be conquered? Good artsy-fartsy prose that his editors love, but the real world doesn't work that way. You need a game plan. So where're those forms?"

You're pretty sure they're crusted with Popsicle juice, the wrappers and sticks permanently bonding to them by now. You're also pretty sure you've got a game plan. "Meg?" Your future shines brighter by the second. "It's 2005. Everyone knows you apply online."

\--------------------

Restlessly stirring, you gradually awaken with your skin on fire and thousands of sharp knives slicing up the back of your throat, tossing and turning until every last blanket on your bed slides to the floor. The rasp in your voice is your mom's first clue that something's wrong when she peeks through the door to check if you're up and getting ready for school.

"Oh, honey!" She rushes in and presses her palm to your forehead. "You're burning up!" 

"It hurts when I swallow," you squeak, your matted hair dripping with sweat. You don't even mention the pain in your head because it hurts too much when you talk. 

Your mom verifies your raging temperature with her trusty ear thermometer and bundles you up for a trip to your pediatrician, notifying Dr. Holman that you'll be there within the hour. 

Diagnosing a nasty case of tonsillitis, his injection of penicillin into your preadolescent butt cheek stings like nobody's business. But you're too big now to cry when you get a shot. You're back in the examining room two hours later with a violent reaction to the antibiotic, scratching yourself raw as the eruption of angry red hives on your neck and arms won't stop. 

"Okay, no more penicillin for Justin. Buy an over-the-counter package of Jr. Tylenol chewable tablets. They'll relieve the sore throat and headache and temporarily reduce the fever." Old Dr. Holman smiles at your mom and gives you a pat on the back.

You wonder why he seems intent on killing you, the grape punch flavored tabs causing more agony that afternoon than you'd suffered in the morning, especially when the teaspoonful of codeine-laced cough syrup he recommended starts to kick in. Spending the rest of the day on the toilet with bouts of simultaneous diarrhea and uncontrollable vomiting, you're ready to give up, your ten-year-old body unable to withstand much more.

"So what'd Dr. Holman say?" your extremely concerned dad needs to know when he gets home from work, having waited much too long while the physician's answering service patched the doctor through to your frantic mom on the phone.

Thoroughly at her wits' end, she considers calling her bank and putting a stop payment on the checks she'd written that day to cover the co-pays for both visits. "He said Justin must be really allergic to a lot of drugs."

\--------------------

_"I NEVER PAINT DREAMS OR NIGHTMARES. I PAINT MY OWN REALITY." - Frida Kahlo_

 

"You seem distracted, Justin. Are you okay?" Lindsay's angular, puzzled face is lined with concern. She hopes you snap out of whatever it is she sees before long, her buyers never failing to loosen up the purse strings after a glass or two of white wine and an amiable chat with their favorite artist. "You guys usually arrive much earlier than this."

Your husband draws you into his side even closer, shooting the mother of his son a pointed warning. "Justin's just fine. He's fabulous, all right?" Kissing the side of your jaw, your five o'clock shadow tickles his lips. "Don't you have a painting to straighten? A bouquet to arrange? Perhaps an hors d'oeuvre to prepare?"

"Oh, Brian! Well, I guess I'll leave you alone for awhile, Justin." She gives you a quick hug before she flits off to find Sidney.

"Thanks." Squeezing his hand, you're grateful he knows when to run interference for you. "I need to—"

"Want some company this time?"

"Sure." Your preshow ritual hasn't changed in seven years, Lindsay and Sidney having learned to keep their distance until it's completed and you indicate you're ready to begin. 

Brian knows the drill, too. He's observed it many times, hanging out in the background unless he's needed to buffer an interruption away from you. Now he lingers with you in front of the first piece that hangs on the Bloom Gallery's west wall, understanding it'll be anywhere from five to ten minutes before you move on to the next one while you mull over what you'll say about it when engaged by the gallery's knowledgeable clientele. He likes to claim you're saying good-bye to your works of art, but he gets that it's so much more than that. 

You can't help thinking how right it feels to have him go through the process with you tonight, loving him for standing beside you and keeping mum for however long it takes. By the time you've meditated on the last piece, you've not only composed your remarks but you've also wrapped your brain around the events that had gone down earlier that afternoon, thoughts of the miraculous breakthrough inevitably creeping into the silence. You can't say you minded the intrusion, though, the story of recovering your long lost memories certain to preoccupy your mind for days to come.

It started when something inexplicable had forced you out of bed that morning to shower with your partner after your early morning fuck, compelling you to climb your way to the attic as he drove off at the ungodly hour of seven thirty a.m. Bemused by the absence of your familiar dream, you wondered what was pulling you in while you deftly mixed the color of optimism. The tears flowed as usual, fueling you as always, but somehow it wasn't the same. You lashed out with your brush, furious streaks telling your tale, yet there was light at the end of the tunnel. Feeling cold and wet and blind and at sea, your ears were filled with the strains of music. You didn't know why, and maybe you never will, but an eleven-year void was suddenly erased. 

You'd lost all track of time when Brian appeared in the open doorway, your abstract no-locks policy recently expanded to include your very real studio. 

"Justin," he whispered, approaching with care. "You've got to get ready . . . the opening . . ."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did tell you." He laughed, happy to hear it was you and not the broken Justin who normally painted the thing in the corner he'd grown to abhor. "I said I'd be home early today. So we could get to the gallery."

"Your eyes. They don't lie, Brian." Turning away from the easel, you neared him, smiling when he insisted he told you he'd be back by four. "At my prom. I saw it in your eyes when we danced to that corny song. And later when you leaned me against your Jeep and kissed me." You stood on tiptoe, slipping your hands to either side of his face as your lips met his. "Was it because I was only eighteen? A dumb, stupid kid? Is that why you waited four more years to tell me? And only then because a fucking bomb scared you shitless?"

"What the hell happened today? Did you and Daphne have one of your marathon phone fests or something?"

"I remember, Brian. All of it. I've been painting since you left, and . . ." Glancing once more at the canvas, you saw the gaps in your life reflected in your strokes, newly found memories attached to each one. You took him by the hand, eager for him to see the painting's transformation. "You loved me. It's all here. You loved me, didn't you?"

"Justin." He groped for the words to convey what he felt when he focused on your lifeless body levitating above the blood-soaked pavement and then again while he stared at your tuxedoed forms dancing atop your grave. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" 

"I wouldn't go that far. It's still fucking disturbing." Tilting his head, he recoiled when the centered jewel jumped out at him from its hiding place among the gore, his brain deciphering the hologram-like image with a start. "Justin," he repeated as his own likeness peered back at him through the small pane of glass, only discernible when viewed from the perfect angle. Shifting his gaze, his line of sight had caught it just right. "The hospital."

"Uh-huh. I saw your face in the window so many times while I thrashed in that bed." 

"Christ. It's been years. I thought you'd never remember."

"But I have. I remember everything now. It wasn't just guilt over the bashing. You loved me. Even back then." You wove a hand around him and reached for the sheet on the work table with the other, watching it flutter to the ground at your feet. "You fell in love with me on the night of my prom." You sighed as you lay with your husband and undressed, the sweet sound of him not denying it the last coherent thought to run through your veins. 

"Are we ready to start?" Lindsay eases back into the picture when she sees you and Brian lift flutes of Pinot Grigio from the caterer's tray, pleased that you've emerged from isolation just in time. 

You look toward the front of the gallery, where Sidney's already greeting the usual suspects. Recognizing a few stuffed shirts and high society dames, you can't have anything but a good night.


	6. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER FIVE

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(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER FIVE

 

"So, Daph, one more day and you'll be here in his arms. Got the spermicidal foam all packed?" You can't resist a little good-natured harassing at the end of an hour-long call, laughing right along with her when she curses and tells you to shut up. "I think it's great you guys are getting back together! Josh is really nice." 

You don't mind taking credit for the match. They've both told you it probably wouldn't have happened if you hadn't picked Daphne's brain about where to stay in New York, their endless Skype sessions and text messages heating up the on-again, off-again romance once more. After a month in the city, you find yourself as anxious as he is to see her when she visits this weekend. 

You just can't figure out why she insists you keep your Friday night free and join them at the steak house after she gets in. "Don't you guys want to be alone for a romantic dinner? If it were me . . ." 

"Come on, Justin. Josh and I have talked about it, and he knows how much I miss you."

"I miss you, too, Daph. But I gotta get to school now. Don't forget the condoms!" 

Heading out in time for your afternoon classes, you tighten the scarf around your neck as a light dusting of snow flurries clings to your lowered lashes. You recognize Josh's boots plodding toward the building from a few feet away.

"Justin. Hey." He narrows the gap between you and stops. "I've got reservations at the restaurant tomorrow night. You're coming with us, right?" 

"Yeah, sure. Thanks, Josh." Why the hell do they want you to tag along? You guess they're not going to find the nearest bathroom as soon as they see each other and fuck. 

Crazy breeders.

\-------------------- 

"Shit!" The scoop of vanilla ice cream you just dropped in your glass of Coke sinks to the bottom real fast, forcing rivers of gooey liquid over the rim and onto your mom's spotless countertop. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" You should clean it up, but you're in a hurry, grabbing your homemade Coke float and popping a blank tape into the VCR just as your movie comes on. 

"Mommy! Look what Justin did!" Your five-year-old bacterial infection of a sister is at it again. She eyeballs your soda fountain gone awry with mischief on her mind when they walk into the kitchen after her playdate. "He made a very big mess in here!" she tattles, sticking her tongue out at you in true devil-child fashion. 

Fortunately, your arsenal is much more sophisticated. You flip her the bird behind your mom's back and set the table for dinner when you're told.

"I wanna be a cartoonist or computer animator when I get out of art school." Taking another slab of meat loaf from the platter, you grin. Your brand new ambition just might be the best idea you've ever had. 

"Art school?" Your dad looks up from his dish. "I always thought you'd go to Dartmouth, Justin. Where I went. You can certainly get in if you do as well in high school as you're doing in middle school."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna be an artist. I recorded Yellow Submarine today so I can watch it whenever I want to. It'd be really fun to make animated movies."

"There's plenty of time to talk colleges, Craig. Justin's only in seventh grade." Your mom gets up to refill her glass. "Don't play with your food, Molly," she says just before the family discussion hangs a left turn into the future of technology.

"You know, that VCR in there will be obsolete pretty soon," your dad tells her. "I was looking through Sony's catalog of new products at the store, and I saw that they're making DVD players now." 

Your head pops up. "DVD players?" 

"New devices to play movies recorded on thin little discs just like music CDs. A whole new format is going to take over in a few years." He laughs when he thinks about the rapidly approaching digital video disc age and Taylor Electronics. "Everyone will need to buy a DVD player to watch them." 

"Wait. What?" You drop your fork into your mashed potatoes, suddenly realizing how this new format is going to affect you personally. "You mean every movie ever made will have to be put on a disc? It could take forever before they get around to Yellow Submarine!" 

You don't know it yet, but your newly recorded video cassette tape is about to become your most prized possession, sticking with you from this very night in 1995 to wherever your life may lead.

\--------------------

"Are you coming to bed anytime soon?" You lean over your husband's shoulder from behind as he lies in his chaise on the terrace, kissing the side of his neck. 

He traps your hand on his chest with a flattened palm. "You done working?" 

"Yeah. Come on." 

"Why don't we sleep out here?" 

"All night? I thought you had an early meeting tomorrow."

"I do."

"It's getting cold."

"I'll keep you warm."

Your eyebrows zigzag a little more with every odd statement he makes. "Sleep outside in one chair?" Freeing your hand, you stand up and walk around in front of him. "What's wrong?" 

Brian sips at his whiskey, keeping his head down. "When did you have it framed?"

"Oh, that." You glance at the new addition above your bed through the French doors. "This morning. Just a spur of the moment thing, actually. I called Thomas Brothers to set up an appointment, and Anthony said Adam was out of town but he could come out right away because he didn't have anything booked until the afternoon. I didn't call you to come home because Anthony's the str—"

"It creeps me out."

"—the straight one. What creeps you out? The painting?" 

"Yes, the painting." He squints into his tumbler. "It's . . ."

"It represents a new beginning. I think it's the most significant work I've ever done, considering the role it played in recovering my lost memories." 

Brian sets his drink on the table and finally looks you in the eye. "That's what it is for you. For me, it dredges up an agonizing past I'd rather not relive every time I walk into our bedroom. Can't you see that?" 

What you see is a partner who's weathered many a storm with you, your hard-won, resilient relationship with him finally turning out the way you'd always imagined it could be. How insensitive of you to overlook what your albatross-turned-savior has been doing to him all this time. "Fuck. I'm really sorry, Brian. I've been so self-absorbed." The fateful thwack of a baseball bat shattering the best night of your lives crackles in your ear, no longer a mere story that happened to someone else. "I haven't been thinking about your feelings."

"Can we put it somewhere else?" 

"Yeah. Let's get it down." You pull him inside and take off your shoes, both of you standing on the bed and carefully detaching the large piece from its hooks. "We can drag it out to the pool house. Or maybe the stables. No one will find it in there." 

"I didn't mean . . ." He looks puzzled, but you're only getting started.

"I know what you mean. You're afraid you won't be able to perform with it hanging right above your head. But I'm not gonna let that happen. We're gonna dump it as far away from here as we can."

"Won't be able to perform? Me?" Brian scoffs at your incorrigible ass, shaking his head from side to side. "You're a brat, you know that? You're a thirty-year-old brat." Helping you prop the painting against the wall outside your bedroom door, he can't wait to get his hands on you.

He's going to have to hold that thought, though. 

"A thirty-year-old brat? Did you just call me thirty? Fucking thirty?!" You stop for a second to work out the current date in your mind, such trivial information rarely on the tip of your tongue because Lindsay keeps track of where you need to be and when. Hardly believing it's the last day of your twenty-ninth year, you don't lose it until your husband makes a sweeping gesture out of pointing toward the antique grandfather clock at the end of the hallway. 

He wishes he had a picture of your face to keep for all posterity when you see that it's eight minutes after midnight. 

"Fuck! I'm fucking thirty! How did this happen, Brian? Fuck!"

\--------------------

 

_"THEY ALWAYS SAY TIME CHANGES THINGS, BUT YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO CHANGE THEM YOURSELF." - Andy Warhol_

 

With Daphne's plane scheduled to land in two hours, you shower and shave late Friday afternoon, flashbacks of home dancing before your eyes as you dress. Hearing Josh rush in from work and grab a quick shower in his own bathroom, you're looking forward to going with him to meet her at the airport and on to a big steak dinner from there. You're finishing up your beer in the living room when he comes out. "Ready for a big night? I know Daphne is!"

"Hell, yeah! Let's just say bye to Aunt Meg before we take off. I haven't seen her since yesterday."

Your sense of uneasiness goes from bad to worse when Meg doesn't respond to your knocks, an eerie silence the only thing you encounter when you try to check in with her. 

"Aunt Meg!" Josh pounds on the door with his fist. "What the fuck is she doing in there?" He sighs and looks at his watch.

"God, I hope . . ." You're reluctant to voice your growing fear. You know something he has yet to learn, having seen her earlier in the day and heard all about the mess in which she'd just landed. "Are you okay, Meg?" you yell out, jamming your finger into the doorbell getting you nowhere. 

That's when Josh remembers they'd given each other emergency keys to their apartments when she first moved in and hurries back into your place to get it. 

"Oh, my God." You had a feeling it wasn't going to be pretty. 

"Jesus." Josh avoids stepping on the shards of glass that were once a gin bottle and crouches down beside his aunt where she lies on the kitchen floor. "I've told her not to keep the hard stuff in the cabinet over the fridge. She has to climb up to reach it." He takes her wrist and feels for a pulse.

You wade through the spilled liquor with squishy footsteps and right an overturned dining room chair when he says she's still breathing. Moistening a handful of paper towels under the faucet, you kneel down to wipe the dried blood from the bottom of her heel. "I guess she stepped on a piece of glass when she fell. This is a bad cut." 

"She hates shoes. She'd go to work barefoot if they'd let her." Josh thanks you for cleaning her foot. "It takes hours for her to get this smashed, but she should have just been getting home. The time element doesn't add up." 

Since Meg's managed to drink herself into a stupor and knock herself out, it's up to you to explain. "She left the gallery early today. Well, actually, was asked to leave was how she put it. I'd just finished my last class around noon and was passing by the Grey when I saw her come out. We walked home together, and she admitted to me they'd smelled alcohol on her breath. And that it wasn't the first time. Her boss told her she needed help and to consider herself on a leave of absence until she got it." You can tell he's not too surprised about her predicament, correctly gathering as you've come to know them that he takes more care of her than the reverse. You see him ready to dial 911 when the foot you're dabbing with wet paper towels starts to squirm. "Josh, look. She's waking up." 

Meg's eyes peel open one at a time, a pained moan escaping from her core. 

"Don't move, Aunt Meg. I'm calling for an ambulance."

"I'm fine. Really." Slowly raising her head and shoulders, she looks around and frowns at the damage. "I must have slipped. I remember scooting the chair over . . ."

"Are you sure you're all right?" You lob the bloodied wad of towels into the trash. 

"Yeah . . . just . . . maybe if you guys can help me up." She sinks into the sofa as if it's her long lost friend after you and Josh ease her over to it. Pinching in on her temples, she grumbles something about the room spinning and totally screwing up this time. 

"We're gonna talk about that," Josh assures her, "but first I gotta text Daphne. Her plane's getting in, and she's expecting us to be there." Thumbs swiftly typing, he revises the arrangements, asking Daph to hop in a taxi and come to the apartment. Adding that he'll pay the fare and explain everything when she arrives, he turns back to his aunt and shushes her when she starts to apologize for ruining his plans. "You know you need to get this under control, Aunt Meg. We can't ignore it any longer. Justin told me what happened at the gallery." 

"Did he tell you my job is on the line? I swear, I'm gonna kick this thing. I have to." 

At least she's facing her problem. You offer to whip up your grandmother's magic potion to help her recover from this latest blunder. "If you can stand it. Last time, the stink freaked you out."

"I don't know what's in that crap, but it worked like a charm. I can force it down to get off this merry-go-round."

"I'll see what I can do. Hang on." You walk across the hall to your own kitchen and start mixing away. 

A much needed cigarette before you go back takes you out to your private little retreat on the fire escape, where you pull up the stool you'd bought on your second day in the city and stashed there for times like this. Lighting up, you suck in a most satisfying lungful of toxins, watching the never-ending parade of vehicles crawling up and down the street. You expect one of the Yellow Cabs to stop any minute now and let Daphne out. 

Your curiosity piques when you spot a sleek black limousine inching its way over to the curb right beneath you, seriously doubting that any of your neighbors would have chartered such a lavish ride. Exhaling a thin plume of smoke as evening falls, you're stunned to observe one Daphne Chanders emerge while a uniformed chauffeur holds her door open with a white-gloved hand. 'What have you done, Daph?!' is all you can think of as you picture Josh coughing up the extravagant expense, but that image vanishes into thin air when you see what happens next. 

It feels like a lifetime since you've held him. Kissed him. Made love to him. And yet there he is three stories below, ducking as he follows her out of the back of the limo. Impossibly more handsome than the last time you'd seen him, Brian straightens up elegantly and towers over the driver, going for his wallet in the inside breast pocket of his full-length camel hair overcoat. 

Joining your blown mind, your heart bursts out of your chest.


	7. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER SIX

[ ](http://s1121.photobucket.com/user/later2nite/media/957a69f0-639f-4ab2-a82f-ced8db516892_zpsa6ea949c.jpg.html)

(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER SIX

 

You stub out your cigarette in a state of near shock, just about to race down to the sidewalk and fling yourself into Brian's arms when a wiser thought prevails. Murphy's Law guarantees you'll miss them in crossing. Watching Daphne point to your building before they walk inside, you clamber back in from the fire escape and hurry over to the elevator bay, gnawing on the side of your thumbnail while you try to guess which one they'll step out of.

Your eyes tear up without warning, a gut reaction when you and Brian are wordlessly drawn to each other in a matter of minutes. Sealing your lips together, neither of you wants to break the silent spell.

"See? I told you he'd be surprised!" Daphne takes it upon herself to do the honors, fearing the kiss will drag on forever if she doesn't. "You're surprised, aren't you, Justin?" 

Brian grins like a loon. "Surprise." 

"I saw you getting out of the car, and I . . . this is so fucking great!" You turn to Daph and hug her tightly. "You never said a word every time we talked. How long have you guys been planning this?"

"Hey, I can keep a secret. Especially when Brian holds the threat of death over my head if I sing!" 

He folds his lips inward and feigns innocence. Throwing an arm behind your back as you lead the way to Meg's door, Brian making the first move to bridge the three hundred and seventy-mile gap between you is downright dizzying. Or maybe it's his fingers pressing into your rib cage. All you know is that the dull ache of missing him the past month has instantly vanished, handshakes, small talk, and lighthearted laughter taking its place when he meets your new friends. Learning they'd helped keep you in the dark about his visit completes the perfect picture. 

"So where's my miracle cure?" Meg wants to know before long, her appearance still in disarray even though Josh has done a quick cleanup in the kitchen. "Or did the arrival of this good-looking guy make you forget all about me?" Nodding in Brian's direction with a twinkle in her eye, she wouldn't blame you if she happened to be right.

"Oh, sorry, Meg. I'll go get it. It's all ready." 

Brian recognizes the stench in your hand when you return with the foul mixture. "Granny Taylor's secret recipe," he identifies it by name. "That shit always works for me!" 

"Oh, yeah?" Thanking you, Meg guzzles it down in one breath. "You, um, drink?" She judges from the giggling and eye-rolling you and Daphne can't control that she must be onto something. She raises the empty glass toward Brian in a mock toast. "A true Irishman."

"You've gotta admit, nothin' beats the smooth burn of that first shot of whiskey after a long, hard day." 

Meg couldn't agree more. "A kindred spirit," she says with a smile. "I'm quitting, though. As of now. You and Daphne had to take a cab from the airport because of my . . . problem. Justin and Joshua were on their way to meet you, but . . ." Lowering her eyes, her voice trails off.

"Oh, Brian doesn't do cabs." Daphne looks at him and laughs. "We took a limo!" 

Swallowing hard, Josh blinks. "H-how much was that?" He sighs and reaches into his pocket before Brian mentions his unlimited expense account and tells him to put his money away. Checking his watch, Josh sees he guessed about right with the restaurant. "Well, I don't know about everyone else, but I'm starving. I called and changed our reservations to an hour later, so why don't you come with us, Aunt Meg? A good meal is just what you need tonight."

"Yeah, Meg, come with us," Daphne says. "I haven't seen you in forever. We need to catch up."

Hesitating briefly, her appetite coaxes her into accepting. Meg pries herself off the sofa and goes to change, the pledge that she's loused up for the last time sounding awfully sincere. 

"We'll be over at our place." Josh picks up Daphne's weekend bag from the corner where she'd dropped it. "Just five minutes, okay? Then we're outta here."

You've never been so grateful to anyone for stretching five minutes into twenty, finding your back slapped against the fridge in your apartment as soon as Josh takes Daphne to see his new computer and you offer Brian a beer. Your mouths are inseparable while your hands grope at each other in familiar patterns, desperate to burrow beneath the clothes in their way. You're ready to scrap the foolish notion of moving to New York and march back home where you belong, the intense love you have for him all that's ever mattered.

"God, Justin." He breathes you in, nuzzling the sensitive skin on the side of your neck. "I've missed you."

Tingling all over, your grip tightens around him. "Brian, I . . . I'm so sorry . . ." It's unplanned and stammering, a whisper escaping from you don't know where. "Sorry that I left . . . Left _us_." 

"We'll always be us."

His words etch themselves into your heart, the nagging anxiety you've felt about the survival of your relationship swiftly packing up and waving good-bye forever. 

You're not even fazed when Daphne and Josh stumble out of his room after their quickie and try not to gawk at your boyfriend devouring you in the middle of the kitchen. 

\--------------------

"Please tell me you didn't actually buy that." You don't appreciate the interruption while you're busy being brilliant, your mom's intrusion into your room forcing you to look up from the four-page essay you're tweaking to perfection well before its due date. "Seriously? A blazer?" 

"You need it for Saturday night, honey. Edgewood has a dress code, you know." She removes the navy blue garment from its protective plastic bag and holds it out for your inspection. "It'll look good with your charcoal slacks. I'm going to shop for a tie tomorrow that'll go with your light blue button-down."

"A tie?! Mom!" 

"Justin, you're thirteen. It won't kill you to dress up." Hanging the new jacket in your closet, she locates your better things and separates them from the jeans and tee shirts. "You've been growing like a weed. We're going to have to get you some nice clothes." 

You didn't object when your father announced you're old enough to start dining with them at the country club once in awhile, but the past five minutes have left you wondering whether you'd really like to or not. You only hope the food is all it's cracked up to be. Otherwise, what's the point? "I gotta finish this essay, okay?" gets your mom out of your hair and your mind back on your footnotes.

Three days later, the point pokes its head out of obscurity. And it has nothing to do with food. Rather, the young man who serves it. 

"And for you, sir?" he asks most attentively, his pencil poised to jot down your order after taking your parents'. 

You'd noticed his skillful hands earlier when he uncorked the bottle and poured their wine, not fully understanding your desire to touch them. And now the musky scent of his cologne as he leans down toward you wreaks havoc on your previously logical existence. No longer a gangly tween, you've acquired a more mature look, the onset of puberty responsible for the growth of body parts that operate with a mind of their own. You thank the gods in heaven for the cloth napkin in your lap and make eye contact with the cute twenty-something waiter, telling him you'll have the prime rib. 

Salad fork on the outside, bread plate on your left, you've been schooled in the social graces like any good WASP boy. You gulp from the water glass on your right to cool the fire under your skin, relieved that your mom and dad are ignoring you while they fret over what headaches Molly might be causing the new babysitter. 

Covering your mouth when you burp, you say 'Excuse me' to no one in particular. 

\--------------------

_"THE PEOPLE WHO WEEP BEFORE MY PICTURES ARE HAVING THE SAME RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE I HAD WHEN I PAINTED THEM." - Mark Rothko_

 

"Forget it, Brian. Not happening. Now can you get out of here and let me wallow in misery alone?" Yanking the quilt up over your head, you dive under the pillows and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the cruel world away. With any luck, you'll wake to discover it was all a hideous nightmare and won't have to deal with the old age issue for a long, long time. 

"Stop being a fucking princess and come downstairs with me. Everyone's waiting on your ass. Unless . . ." Your husband thinks back. Twelve years back. Wasn't he was forcibly hauled off to a twisted celebration of his own birthday, set up by a little twat who unlocked the loft door with his key and enabled the gang to barge in? "Hey, Mikey!" Brian shouts out of your bedroom door. "Get up here! Bring Emmett and Ted with you!" 

Just as you'd dreaded, kicking and screaming are fruitless, your slight build no match against the four guys who dig you out of your cocoon and lug you down to Britin's great room. Erupting into cheers and applause at your not-so-grand entrance, your partying guests are having way too much fun. 

"What is it, Sunshine?" Debbie's no help while you struggle with your captors. "Thought you could hide from the big three-0?"

"Sweetheart!" Your mom rushes over for a hug when they set you down on your feet and unhand you. "What do you think?" She points out more gaudy streamers and balloons floating around than you've ever seen assembled in one place. "Molly and I did all the decorations!" 

"Uh, thanks." Trying not to wince, you're pissed off that your sister's not sharing whatever she's tripping on. "It's a lot of . . ." 

Ben seems to be the only one who understands your plight, materializing in front of you with a cup of spiked punch. "Here, Justin. You'll feel better after you down a few of these." He laughs and puts his arm around Michael. 

"He'll feel better after he stops queening out about his advanced age." Brian reels you into his side and plants a kiss on the top of your head. "Face it, dear. You're one of us now."

Pouring half the punch down your throat, you can't help but crack a smile when the tide suddenly shifts, Michael not about to let that one slide. 

"Oh, and you didn't queen the fuck out when _you_ turned thirty?! I had to cut you down from the fucking rafters! At least Justin hasn't attempted to scarf his life away!" 

"Not yet!" You begin to loosen up a bit in spite of yourself. Leaving Brian and Michael to reminisce about the good old days, you wander over to the sofa and plop down next to Daphne. "If you say happy birthday, I'll never speak to you again. They're getting so big." You don't know how she copes with her boisterous twins, who're rolling around on the carpet and pulling on her legs like a couple of, well, toddlers. "What are they? Like two now?" 

"Almost." She pulls identical Matchbox cars out of her bag of tricks and hands one to each of them, hoping it buys her some sanity. "Josh was so disappointed that he couldn't get away from work. He wanted to come with us to wish you a hap-. Oops. Just about said it." 

"Don't even think it. I'm glad you're here, though. I need to tell you something, and I didn't want to do it on the phone. When you said you'd be here in Pittsburgh for my, um, you know . . ."

"What's going on?"

You take a deep breath. "Let me just start by saying you looked really pretty at our senior prom. Your dress. Your hair. Gorgeous." You're expecting her stunned, incredulous stare. "I had a breakthrough a few weeks ago, Daph. Like a heavy curtain was lifted and the darkness faded away. All my lost memories. They're not lost anymore. I can see everything now."

"Really?! Justin, that's awesome!" She gives you a big hug, but she needs answers. "How?! What?!" 

"Come with me. I've gotta show you something." Waving Gus over, you ask him if he'll keep an eye on Trevor and Travis. "See if J.R. will sit here and play cars with them. We'll be right back."

You climb up the staircase with Daphne close behind and stop in the hallway outside your room. "Brian kind of freaked when I had it hung over the bed, so it's gonna go somewhere else." Maneuvering the piece from its resting spot facing the wall, you scoot it around so she can see it, mindful not to scratch the frame on the hardwood floor. You'd hold it up at eye level if it weren't so damn heavy, making do for now with flipping on the overhead light fixture in the hall to enhance the multilayered images. "Working on this is what opened up the floodgates."

You give her ample time to soak it all in, waiting until several minutes have elapsed. "Daphne?"

Still reverently hushed, she stands transfixed, a lone tear trickling down her cheek. 

\--------------------

He's fucking unbelievable. He's been fucking unbelievable so many times you've lost count, although you honestly felt that anything else he'd ever come up with would pale in comparison to his buying you a country manor six weeks ago and convincing you to marry him. 

But then tonight happened. 

Tucked snugly under his arm in the back of the limo, you share a look and a smile with your best friend, who's sitting equally contentedly in Josh's lap. You're still trying to digest the events that unfolded at the restaurant when Meg launches into another round of undying thanks to the fucking unbelievable Brian Kinney.

"And I don't wan't you to consider it money that you're just throwing away." She wiggles out of her shoes and relaxes back into the seat across from you. "I mean it, Brian. I'll repay every cent, with interest if you like, as soon as I'm earning a living again."

A peck on your lips prefaces the simple method to his madness. "I figure it's the least I can do for the clever soul who got Justin here back into school. Fuck knows I tried several times. Getting a degree from NYU is the smartest move he can make right now. And from what I've heard tonight, we owe it all to you, Meg." 

Nodding in affirmation is all you can do. The decision to fast-track your way to graduation at the prestigious university was definitely motivated by the first person you'd met on this adventure to New York City. You could have done without all her raving during dinner about the hype that surrounded your enrollment and the stir you can still cause some days when your classmates cluster around to watch you paint, but you guess Brian was bound to hear of the flap sooner or later. 

"Justin has a gift, but even the gifted have a hard time breaking into this business. I've been around long enough to know that NYU's art department is crawling with influential bigwigs who can open doors for someone with Justin's talent. And trust me, it's gonna happen for him." Meg smiles at you before she looks Brian in the eye. "Now, with your kind generosity, I'll be back in time for the annual senior show to witness the official start of his career."

"Just get well out there, Aunt Meg. I know you can do it. Betty Ford's one of the best facilities in the country." Josh turns toward Brian as if he were some kind of divine redeemer. "You have no idea what this means for our family. Thank you."

You're proud of him for accepting their gratitude. You know from experience that saving the day behind the scenes and claiming no involvement are more his style. Listening to Meg and Daphne gab about how nice it will be to dry out in sunny Rancho Mirage, California, you take in the scenery along Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan from the car's tinted windows. You can hardly believe you're on your way to spend the weekend holed up with your boyfriend at the five-star Peninsula Hotel, soon visible up ahead. 

"Well, it's been fun." Brian watches the driver jockey for space in front of the Peninsula's doorman. "But this is where Justin and I get off."

"Ha ha," you reply to Daphne's lewd comment. No doubt she and Josh will put their privacy in the apartment to good use.

Lowering the partition as the limo rolls to a stop, Brian settles up with the chauffeur to the tune of a couple hundred dollars. "This should cover everything. Plus one more trip. Just take these fine people back to . . . what was it?" He looks at Daphne. "Alphabet soup? Avenue Q?" 

"Oh, my God!" Daph shrieks. "I told him Avenue B in Alphabet City when we were leaving the airport! So he'd know the neighborhood!" 

"Close enough. Later, guys." Brian flashes his killer smile amid heaps of appreciation for footing the transportation bill. He pulls you out of the car with him and hangs his arm over your shoulders while you wait for the doorman to get your carryalls out of the trunk, almost more impatient than you are to get you alone. 

You've never seen him hand over his credit card as quickly as he does at the front desk, finally stepping into the elevator with him on your way to his prebooked penthouse suite. "Jesus, Brian!" You tackle him from behind while he jabs the button for the top of the hotel, pinning him into a corner before the doors seal together. "You're so fucking unbelievable!" 

"Why? Because I want to fuck you in luxury for two days straight?" He interlocks his fingers behind your waist, his eyes sparkling with lust. 

"No!" You laugh and kiss his lips when he rests his forehead down on yours. "I mean paying for Meg to go to Betty Ford. Where did that come from? You just met her tonight!"

Brian shrugs. "I don't know. For some reason, I took an instant liking to her. It's obvious she really wants to get sober. And then I was sitting there eating my steak and thinking about what alcoholism's done to my mother. I might not have turned out this fucked up if she'd had some professional help when I was a kid. Besides." A wry grin comes over his face. "Meg reminds me of Stevie Nicks. I used to think she was hot."

"Who the hell is that?" 

"Stevie Nicks? The hippie-chick singer with the raspy voice in Fleetwood Mac? They practically dominated top forty radio in the seventies and eighties."

"You do realize I was born in 1983, right?"

Brian exhales a stifled groan. "Christ. Remind me again why I'm with you?" 

You don't need a more blatant invitation, promptly reaching out for the panel and halting the elevator mid-climb. Sinking to your knees as it lodges between floors, you don't know how you've managed to keep your mouth off his dick this long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big 'thank you' to techgirl for an important plot detail in this chapter.


	8. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER SEVEN

  
[](http://s1121.photobucket.com/user/later2nite/media/957a69f0-639f-4ab2-a82f-ced8db516892_zpsa6ea949c.jpg.html)  
(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Neither of you has heard a phone ring or thought about business in days. Just what you wanted when you rented an Atlantic City beach house and insisted your husband join you on a much needed stress-free getaway. Entrusting Kinnetik into Ted's capable hands and switching off the work side of his brain hadn't been easy, but he'd given it a try and finally relaxed. He actually thanked you for being such a bossy better half and dragging him there soon after you'd arrived, all too happy to take the mai tai you ordered him out of your hand. 

Now buckling your seat belts as your flight back home prepares to land, you kiss, not ready to end the laid-back week you spent playing and doting on each other.

"Let's promise to do this twice a year. For our sanity, if nothing else." Lacing your fingers between his, it occurs to you that you just might be the happiest man alive. "We really needed this."

"Twice a year? I'll go broke! You saw how much I lost at the tables."

"How do you think they build those megaresorts? With _your_ money. We should have just eaten at the buffets and stayed out of the casinos."

Your vacation mindsets stay with you all the way down to baggage claim, only to disappear after Brian spots the tragic headline screaming out to him from a nearby newsstand and buys the local paper. You literally can't believe what you're hearing when he stops and reads the front page aloud, snatching it from him to see for yourself: Prominent fine art dealer and gallery owner Sidney Bloom -- devastating car accident -- hanging on by a thread in County General Hospital --

Brian skims the article over your shoulder. "Lindsay's probably a fucking mess. Does it say when it happened?" 

"Um . . . last night. This is so unreal."

"We've gotta talk to her." He reaches into his pocket. "No goddamned cell phones! Fucking beautiful! That's the last time I let you talk me into going away without—"

You turn around in the middle of his rant and hurry over to the nearest rental car counter, rattling off your emergency and pleading with the agent to give you an outside line. Not surprised to hear Lindsay's number roll to voice mail, you take a deep breath. "Hey, we just got back from A.C. and read about Sidney. Are you okay? We're leaving the airport right now. No phones with us, so we'll call you as soon as we get to the house. Bye."

Paying extra for a car service to cut off slowpokes and speed you home, your tension doesn't subside until you pull into the driveway and find Lindsay's SUV parked off to the side. She and Gus pile out of it as soon as they see you. 

"Help your dads with their luggage," she tells him, both of you handing off your rolling bags. 

Brian reaches out to her with a peck on the lips and a warm embrace. "What the hell happened? He's near death?"

"It was a drunk driver. Ran a red light doing sixty and hit him broadside. He never had a chance."

"Jesus." You slowly shake your head. "He's already gone?"

Lindsay's eyes tear up, her voice breaking. "His wife was making arrangements to have his organs donated when I left the hospital this morning. It won't be much longer till they pull the plug."

"Let's go inside." Brian's arm circles her shoulders. He gets a good look at his lanky thirteen-year-old bellhop from behind. "I think you grew another foot while we were gone, Sonny Boy." 

You unlock your front door in somewhat of a daze, still not quite grasping the idea of Sidney's imminent passing. "Thanks, Gus. You can leave them right there." You motion to the bottom of the staircase and ask if he wants a soda, the four of you ending up at your kitchen table before long in the midst of a family huddle. 

"And since Sidney's wife wants me to run the gallery, I'll be doing it alone until I can hire more help. I'll have to go in early and stay late at night. And Mel's court case is just heating up, so she's working long hours, too." Lindsay takes a sip of the tea you'd made her. "We talked it over, and we just thought it'd be best if Gus stays here full time for awhile." She eyes Brian first and then you. "If it's okay."

"This has always been Gus's home, too. You don't have to ask something like that. Right, Brian?"

"No more driving him back to the Pitts on Sunday night after the weekend? Whatever shall we do with ourselves and all the gas we'll save?" 

"See? I told you they'd say yes!" Gus's chair screeches on the terrazzo when he pushes away from the table and leaps to his feet. "My backpack's in the car!"

\--------------------

If you'd asked yourself a year ago what you'd be doing tonight, the answer most assuredly would not have been mingling near eight of the original pieces you created for New York University's annual senior art show with your mom and boyfriend. The path you intended to take after deciding not to marry had nothing to do with school, yet here you are set to graduate in a week. Funny how life works sometimes. 

Observing from a few feet away, you watch the group of people admiring your work steadily expand into a well dressed mob and resist the urge to play referee every time a cordial argument breaks out over who saw a particular painting first. 

"They're selling like hotcakes, just as I predicted! Everyone wants to own a Justin Taylor!" 

You turn to face the whirlwind who just blew in, caught up in her huge bear hug a moment later. "Meg, you made it. I wasn't sure if we'd see you here." 

"I'm not gonna let the recent developments keep me away from your big debut. Last time I checked, I was still a card-carrying member of John Q. Public." She thrusts her arms out toward Brian and gives him the same bone crushing treatment. "And how's my favorite benefactor tonight? Handsome as ever, I see."

"Meg. You look . . ." Cocking his head, he gives her a thorough once-over. "I take it sobriety agrees with you. If only I were straight."

"But you're not, Brian. Meg, I want you to meet my mother." Laughter and introductions are the order of the day for all of you, chatting with lots of your milling classmates and professors who come up and congratulate you on such a successful show. You're truly humbled when the dean of the art department makes it a point to stop and dole out his praise. Fond memories you'll always cherish. 

Maybe none as much as the one you're about to make with Simon Caswell. Spotting the loathsome critic examining your framed canvases with a fine-tooth comb, you square your shoulders and stand a little taller.

"Ah, Mr. Taylor. Prodigious work, as expected." His eyes roam up and down your body. "What's it been? About a year since we met at the Pittsburgh Gay and Lesbian Center?" 

You'll be damned if you're going to stand there and converse while he openly ogles you, fawning fucking review or not. A terse 'I guess' is all you can spare.

"I was rather disappointed you didn't attend my presentation at the Grey Gallery last week. I was looking forward to getting reacquainted when I saw your name on the class roster." 

"Yeah, well, I must have been busy or something. If you'll excuse me." Pivoting on your heels, you go to the men's room and relieve your champagne-filled bladder, wondering what the hell you ever did to attract such a reptile. You're washing your hands when you look up and realize he's followed you in, Simon Caswell evidently not one to give up so easily. 

"Justin." He parks himself entirely too close to the basin you're using. "We seem to have started off on a bad note. I'd like it very much if we could change that. May I take you out for coffee after the show?"

You've encountered a lot of wrong in your twenty-three years, but what's happening in this bathroom is so wrong you just might have to double over and puke. Your features are still wrenched in disbelief at this laughable man when the door suddenly bolts open. Your boyfriend fills the tiny gap between you without a word. 

His kiss is quiet and soft at first. You're more than certain it won't end that way. Closing your eyes while he unbuckles your belt, you hear the water turn off and the sound of fading footsteps.

\--------------------

_July 15, 1997_

_Dear Mr. Taylor:_

_On behalf of the St. James Academy Preparatory High School administration, it is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into the class of 2001 based on the results of your entrance exam._

_As you know, our wide-ranging college preparatory curriculum includes many Honors and Advanced Placement courses. We also offer several athletic programs and special interest clubs, important components in the development of a well-rounded student. While statistics have proven that our graduates go on to succeed in overwhelming numbers at the finest universities in the country and abroad, it is our sincere hope that your educational experience here at St. James Academy is both fun and fulfilling._

_I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome you into the St. James family and look forward to meeting you and your parents at the mandatory freshman orientation session, which will be held on August 20, 1997 at 7:00 p.m. in the school's gymnasium._

_Best regards,_

_Carol Donnelly  
Director of Admissions_

 

The parochial high school in your upscale neighborhood became the focus of your dad's attention after you'd consistently ranked in the ninety-ninth percentile on every standardized test you took in middle school. He started to put more serious consideration into it when you became valedictorian of your eighth grade class and gave a speech during commencement exercises at the end of the year. 

Scanning the acceptance letter you received from St. James in the mail that afternoon, he's happy with the decision you finally made together. "This school should be just what you need academically, Justin. I'm hoping it'll be more of a challenge than you've had in the past."

"Uh-huh." You don't really care one way or another. You've earned top-notch grades since you were little, and you don't expect much to change now. If scoring the maximum allowable points on this private academy's entrance exam is anything to go by, you'll be continuing your habit of idly drawing in your sketchbook during lectures to pass the time.

Your mom takes you to the campus bookstore a week later, trailing along while you check the list of classes you've been issued and pick out the required texts for each one. She watches the Algebra One workbook ring up at eighty-two dollars when it's time to pay. "My goodness. This is going to be an expensive four years."

"Uh, Mom?" You're distracted by a ruckus on the other side of the store, where three or four obnoxious guys your age are gathered around racks of official St. James clothing. "I'll be over there. We're gonna get my uniforms today, too, aren't we?"

"Damn, Chris!" A husky kid with a noticeable case of acne is mouthing off when you near them. "I can't believe we have to wear this shit." He grabs a cellophane-packaged white dress shirt from the display and hurls it toward his friend, snorting when it lands on the floor at his feet. "You won't make first-string quarterback with those skills!"

"Shut up, you ass!" 

"All right, boys." An employee quickly intervenes. "Behave yourselves or get out of here." Glaring, she stoops to pick up the makeshift football.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry." Snickering as soon as she turns her back, the wannabe jock looks for a fitting room with a few pairs of pants in his hand while his cohorts dig through their own sizes and make an effort to dial down the testosterone.

You're not the roughhousing type, but it doesn't take long for you to arrive on common ground with them. Selecting your own armload of things, you can't believe you have to wear this preppy shit five days a week.

That night you're on a mission up in your room, the mountain of unwanted items in the corner growing at an alarming rate. Ransacking your closet, drawers, and shelves, and not forgetting about the crud under your bed, you clean out anything that looks even remotely childish. Long forgotten toys and games. Juvenile books and clothes. It's all stacked and ready to be tossed when your mom walks by your open door.

"Whoa! What are you doing in here?"

"Getting rid of my old junk. I don't need it anymore." You haphazardly lob a stuffed animal over your shoulder. 

It sails past her face on its way to the heap. "Gus, too?! He's your favorite teddy bear!"

"When I was six. I'm in high school now, Mom." 

You promise to box everything up and cart it out to the garage when she vetoes just trashing it, agreeing that donating your former belongings to the Goodwill is a better, greener option. Closing the door and flopping on your bed after the last trip, you look over your more grown-up surroundings. Much better. Now your mind can wander to the boy du jour. 

Like variations on a central theme, he's the one who caught your eye this time. The same stirring you'd felt in your underwear while you both tried on uniforms in adjacent dressing rooms bubbles beneath your clothes. A familiar sensation. And it feels good. 

Your right hand slips inside the waistband of your jeans, creeping lower until it reaches the place where it can most often be found.

\--------------------

 

_"IF I CREATE FROM THE HEART, NEARLY EVERYTHING WORKS. IF FROM THE HEAD, ALMOST NOTHING." - Marc Chagall_

 

"Well, I've had enough sorrow and grief for one afternoon. How about you guys?" Brian peels off his suit jacket and makes a beeline to the liquor cabinet the minute you walk in the house. "It's been a long day."

You head into the den with Gus. Slumping down on the couches, you kick off your patent leather dress shoes at the same time, all twenty of your cramped up toes breathing in relief. Though emotionally drained after the three hour ordeal of Sidney Bloom's funeral and subsequent graveside service, you're always available for the closest thing you'll ever have to a biological son. "You okay? You were really quiet all the way home."

Gus shrugs, searching through the video games he keeps in the end table drawer. "I don't know. It's just my mom. She was so sad."

"It was sad for all of us."

"Yeah. It's good she sat with us and everything, but didn't it bother you that she kept clinging to my dad?" 

"That doesn't bother me." You watch him fidget with the newest version of Assassin's Creed, turning it over and over in his hands. "Brian's very protective of Lindsay. They've loved each other since their college days; they'll always love each other." Feeling his confusion, you wait till he slowly looks up, his questioning eyes seeking yours. "Your father and I are life partners, Gus. The love we share is completely different. You're mature enough to understand that, aren't you?"

He nods like his old self again and plugs his game into the console, the universe as he's always known it happily back to making sense. "I wish my moms had what you and Dad have."

"They don't?" You'd thought it a little strange today that Melanie hadn't been there for her wife, but a sudden clamor in the dining room instantly wipes out any and all lesbianic concerns.

"Fuck! Not again!" your aforementioned life partner roars. "Justin!? Have you seen this!?"

"What is it?" Rushing to his side, your first inkling is to calm him down. 

But then he shoves a short handwritten note under your nose. "I found it taped to the whiskey bottle! The first place he knew I'd go when we got home. His resignation! Effective immediately!" 

You wad up the scrap of paper in your fist with a loud huff. "What the fuck's going on with these housekeepers? Daniel's the second one to walk out on us this month!"

\--------------------

You haven't looked away from the fascinating waxy blobs floating around in Meg's lava lamps in, um . . . Well, it doesn't really matter how long you've been zoned out because, uh . . . Oh, fuck it. Who wants to think?

"Justin?"

"Huh?"

"Want another hit? It's almost out." Josh pinches the roach between his thumb and index finger and extends his arm out to you. 

"No. No, I'm good." You cough and pass it to Meg, catching a glimpse of the rounded flesh her skimpy tank top doesn't conceal as she leans toward you. No big deal. You actually respect her youthful freedom. "I'll take some more Kool-Aid, though." 

"I'm proud of you, Aunt Meg. I never thought I'd see the day you replaced booze with purple sugar-water. Or smoked for the last time." 

"You're seeing it." She drops the end of a joint she'd hidden in her desk long ago into the ashtray and pats the top of Josh's head. "I just ran across this one I'd forgotten about and thought I'd share with you guys. But I'm not going to buy any more. One thing my stint at Betty Ford taught me is that I don't need to get drunk or high. I don't need anything."

Josh grabs the pitcher of grape Kool-Aid after you set it down. "Except gainful employment?"

"So sucks that the Grey terminated you while you were getting help. I'm gonna do a portrait of your lava lamps tomorrow, 'kay?" 

"Such is life, boys. I'll find something else. I love you, Justin, but you're not staining my carpet with oil-based paint." Meg empties a package of cookies into a bowl after the three of you quit convulsing in waves of laughter. "Now if you had a studio, it'd be a different story."

"Yeah, I'm getting one. I made enough money from my pieces in the show to cover the first few months' rent. And I have three more in my room. They wouldn't let me hang them because they said eight was the limit for each student. If I can sell those . . ." Your sentence dangles in limbo while you cram an Oreo in your mouth.

"If?! You're fucking kidding me, right? The way your stuff moved?" She twists a chocolaty cookie apart and seems to be studying the creamy filling before it works its magic on her sweet tooth. "Three more? Word would have to get out in all the right circles. With my contacts . . . Your own studio, huh?"

"Uh-oh." Josh reaches into the bowl with both hands. "Weed always drives her brain into overload. Let's see who can shock the other two the most with a single true statement. Loser has to run to Seven/Eleven for more Oreos. I'll go first. I'm gonna buy Daphne a ring and propose." He looks over at you, challenging you to go one better.

"Brian and I had to make sure my mom's suite at the Four Seasons was on a different floor from ours after the show so she wouldn't hear us fucking. She told him she knew that was the reason on their way back to Pittsburgh." 

"That's two statements, dickhead." 

"Shit." You turn your head at the same time Josh does, both of you staring at Meg and waiting for her shocking truth.

"I'm going to make Justin a wealthy man."


	9. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER EIGHT

[](http://s1121.photobucket.com/user/later2nite/media/957a69f0-639f-4ab2-a82f-ced8db516892_zpsa6ea949c.jpg.html)  
(many thanks to the amazing tatjana_yurkina for my beautiful banner)

 

 

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER EIGHT

" _EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL." - Pablo Picasso_

 

"God, Justin. How can you find anything in here? It looks like a war zone." Meg lets herself into your airy SoHo loft with the key you'd given her when you first moved in. She negotiates her way around the living quarters through scads of clothes and shoes littering the carpet as well as books, papers, and practically everything else you own piled on the furniture and kitchen counter. "Don't you know what closets are for? Do you even possess a hanger?"

"And hello to you, too, Meg." Your brush never leaves the canvas as she approaches you in the immaculate half of the open space, the side where neatly ordered file cabinets and supply shelves line the walls. Where easels sit in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and display paintings in various stages of completion, each precisely equidistant to the work table in the center of your studio. Ironically, you can't paint under any other circumstances. "When are you gonna chill about the mess over there? I keep telling you, it's organized chaos. I know where everything is."

"Artists." She stops behind you and regards your work in progress with a knowledgeable eye. "Nice. I've got just the buyer for it, too. He purchased the two similar abstracts you did last year. Maybe we can put it in the William Bennett show on the 18th. I told you about that one, right?"

"Come on, Meg. You know I'm not good with dates. That's why you're my agent _and_ my manager. We've done extremely well for ourselves. Let's not fuck it up by trusting me to remember anything important." 

"Amen to that." Meg spends some time contemplating the pieces on the other easels while you busy yourself with shading, purposely withholding her comments. 

You don't notice that she's moved on to silently observing the ant-like civilization down on the street from your ninth story windows until you prop your brush in a former soup can and reach for the rag dangling halfway out of your back pocket. Ready to take a break, you dab at the smudges of wet color on your thumb. "So what'd you want to talk to me about? The wedding? You sounded excited on the phone." 

She waits for you look up and focus on her, wanting your undivided attention. That's when it hits you. She never brings up anything important while you're working. Didn't she once put off telling you about Josh's emergency appendectomy for hours, burying herself in the invoice catalog and accounts receivable rather than interrupt your wildly productive spree? She's considerate like that. Or a shrewd businesswoman.

Stuffing the rag back into your pocket, you motion for her to come join you on the settee in the corner. "I'm all yours. Spill."

"Okay. The wedding's going to be beautiful tomorrow, but that's not it. I need to know if you were serious when you were kicking around the idea of opening up your own gallery. No sense even getting into it if that was just idle talk." 

Your eyes widen. "Oh, I was definitely serious about that. Still am. Why? What's up?" 

"Well, you know Fuller's bookstore in front of that old hole-in-the-wall studio where you started out?" Meg rids herself of her shoes and sits on one leg, her favorite position for delving into heavy topics. "I was browsing in there yesterday and heard him say he's retiring after forty-seven years. I started talking to him about it, and he said he's probably going to let the lease go when it's up next month, but he's willing to sublease if someone wants to take it over. He remembered you when I suggested you might be interested."

"Yeah, I'm interested. It almost sounds too simple, though. It can't be that simple, can it?"

"I'd call it luck more than anything else. Most of the shops down here in Lower Manhattan have been grandfathered in for generations. Fuller said he always liked you. Recalled you being a hardworking kid and said he'd be happy to strike a deal with you."

At twenty-five, you're not a kid anymore. Your mind reels at the opportunity knocking on your door. Maybe you should let it in. "I've been thinking about it for awhile now. All the different galleries you've arranged for me to show in. The Village. Here in SoHo. Uptown. Do you realize how many owners have made a commission off of me?"

"That's the name of the game. How everyone breaks into the art world." 

"I know. And I'm so grateful to be a part of it. But if I open my own gallery, we cut out the middleman. I may not be good with dates, but I know that's a shitload of cash we keep for ourselves." 

Meg laughs and stretches out her bent-up leg, immediately drawing the other one under herself. "Talent _and_ brains. You really do have it all. It would be a logical next step, Justin. If you're ready." 

"I'd love for my paintings to replace Fuller's books, but . . ." You can't ignore the only snag you see in this rapidly forming plan. "I'd still work here, and you'd operate from there? Could you do the nine-to-five route again? You've been free to get things done on your own time for so long." 

"Hey, selling your art is what I do best. A structured day won't kill me. Truthfully, having everything under one roof will make my life a lot easier. And it's in a perfect little niche location near NYU. I'd enjoy the hell out of it."

Scanning your canvases in the fading afternoon light, you mull over your options. Keep lining the pockets of gallery owners throughout New York City, or take control of your finances. And your future. 

You haven't been labeled a genius for nothing. 

\--------------------

"Listen, Gus. I don't know what you're doing to make them quit, but whatever it is, you better knock it the fuck off." 

"I'm not doing anything to make them quit, Dad! Mrs. Beasley liked me. She really did!"

You turn off the oven and join them at the table, setting a serving platter of lightly seasoned roasted chicken breasts next to the rice pilaf and tossed salad. "I'm sure Gus isn't driving them away, Brian. You're just aggravated with the situation." Bending down, you press your mouth onto the sole set of lips you've chosen to kiss for the rest of your life. 

"Hell, yes, I'm aggravated! You've stopped working early every night this week to make dinner, and I'm out of excuses why I can't do it." Brian helps himself to modest portions of food compared to the amounts you and Gus routinely put away. "So when do we interview the next prospect?" 

"When we find the next prospect. We've gone through the entire list." You take a roll and pass the bread basket over to Gus. No way he's to blame for the parade of new cooks and housekeepers giving their notice soon after they get the lay of the land and settle in. And what about the last three consecutive job seekers who declined employment after you'd merely shown them around? You wish you knew.

"Can I cook tomorrow night, Justin? My moms taught me how to make tacos. They're really good. And Dad won't have to think up another excuse." 

Brian raises an eyebrow while you and Gus snicker at his expense. But the more important issue is the elephant in the corner the mention of Lindsay and Melanie has riled. Fearing the worst from the moment Lindsay called and asked if they could come out to Britin that evening, you're still hoping your instincts are off. For Gus's sake. 

"Come on, Sonny Boy. Help me clean up." Brian stacks your empty plates and carries them to the sink after your laughter-filled wisecracking competition disguised as a family meal. "We'll let Justin do some more painting before your moms get here. Any idea what this little visit's all about?"

"Bad news, prob'ly. They were fighting a lot when they said I could live here, and I can tell it's not any better every time I talk to one of them on the phone." 

Rising when Gus does, you walk over to him and pull his spindly frame against your chest. "We're here for you no matter what happens. This will always be your home." Visions of sprinting down a long hospital corridor beside the hottest guy you'd ever seen fill your head. You'll do everything in your power to ensure that newborn baby he'd been racing to meet feels wanted and secure. After all, you know what it is to suffer the opposite during these fragile teenage years. 

"'M-kay," Gus mumbles into your shoulder. He hugs you back before he grabs the silverware off the table and brings it to the dishwasher. 

Brian looks up from the running water, your eyes connecting on their own private wavelength. Absorbing from each other what words can't convey, neither of you has ever been in a better place. You're heading up the kitchen stairs to your studio when you actually hear it. 

"I love you, Gus, and Justin does, too. Everything's gonna be fine." 

You like to think you had something to do with the evolution of Brian Kinney.

\--------------------

You'd flourished during freshman year at St. James Academy, utilizing your natural mental abilities plus hard work and earning your trademark excellent grades. Blending in with the student body as if you were no different, you only needed to scratch a few layers below the surface to grasp just how fundamentally unlike Breeder Central's general population you were, a tiny detail that also applied to the rest of the world the more you thought about it. Nevertheless, and especially when you pondered the closet case who sat next to you in Honors English, you'd come to like the guy who greeted you in your bathroom mirror every morning. 

Armed with a burgeoning sense of self-awareness, you expect more of the same from your sophomore year, prepared for another nine months of endless chapters to read, projects to complete, and tests to ace. But that's before you wander into Homeroom on the first morning and make your way to an empty desk. Scoping out an unfamiliar face two rows over as soon as you sit down, you can't help grinning at the new girl when she looks around and catches your eyes on her. 

Finally! There's nothing this white-bread suburban high school needs more than a healthy dose of diversity! You might even be beaming when she grins back.

"They stick sometimes. If you pound on it with your fist right about here . . ." You stop in the crowded hall at lunchtime to help her with the temperamental locker she's been assigned, popping it open like magic with the patented method you use on your own Fort Knox. "Mine does the same thing."

"Hey, it worked! Thanks!" Breaking into an infectious smile, she throws her books in and slams it shut. "Hope I remember how you did that. Now, if I can just find a veggie wrap. I'm so starving. I'm Daphne, by the way. Didn't I see you this morning in Homeroom?"

"Yeah, that was me. I'm Justin." You've never made a friend faster, her outgoing personality meshing seamlessly with your more reserved, observant one. "The cafeteria's down here. I'll show you if you want. So how do you like St. James so far?"

"It's okay, I guess. I sort of miss my old school, but my dad got transferred and we moved here last week. My parents bought a house over on Edgewood Circle."

"You live on Edgewood? I live right around the corner from you on Ashby." You hand her a tray when you get to the lunchroom and take one for yourself, standing in the food line together and then finding a table. Your conversation only lags once during the allotted thirty-minute period, but Daphne finishes off her pint of milk and quickly fills the void.

"So what's with Erica Jacobson? She's in History with me. I hope she's not your girlfriend or anything 'cause oh, my God! She seems totally stuck up." 

"Fuck, no!" Your eyes roll at the thought. "She's not my girlfriend at all. She does it with any guy who looks at her. And, yeah, she is pretty stuck up about it." 

Daphne giggles her head off, leaning closer to soak up every morsel of dirt you dish on her new classmates. "Tell me! Tell me! I need to know!"

"Now September, you'll like her. She's really nice. I'll introduce you to her tomorrow."

\--------------------

"You better be dead. That's all I have to say to your ass at three forty-five in the goddamned morning, Justin. You better be fucking dead. You know I have to fly to Chicago at the crack of daw—"

"Briannnn! You picked up! I miss you sssooo much! Wanna have phone sexxx?"

"Now? I'm trying to slee . . . Where the hell are you? It sounds like you're in the middle of Times Square on New Year's Eve."

"Oh, that? That's just Josh and all the rowdy guys in this straight bar. They're straight. Stripper just jumped out of the cake, so they're all yelling at her and shit. I kinda don't fit in. Like a square peg in a round hole. Oops! I said hole. Wwwanna have phone sexxx?"

"Christ, Justin. How fucking drunk are you?"

"Fffucking drunk. That's funny, Brian. I'm fffucking drunk like everyone else in here 'cause it's a batch . . . it's Josh's bache . . . hic . . ."

"Josh's bachelor party. I get it. Now how are you supposed to look your sunshiny-best tomorrow as Daphne's maid of honor if you're all hung over?" 

"You know what, Brian? Naked girl is naked standing on the table. I can never unsee that. I should go home. I'm gonna go home and have phone sex."

"I hope you throw the phone away after."

"Wwwith youuu! Can't you blow off that meeting with Leo Brown and come here for the wedding instead? Never mind. I know. I know. I'm mature now. Business comes before pleasure. I'll just be all stag without you. Brian? Briannn? Can a gay guy be stag? Or does it just mean a straight guy without a date? Briii-an?"

"Quiet. I'm sleeping."

"Shhhhh. Remind me to tell you something when you wake up. Impooortant, Brian. I did a lot of thinking today, and . . . Life changing, Brian. It really is. Bye. I love you."

"JUSTIN?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WAKE ME UP AT THREE FORTY-FIVE IN THE GODDAMNED MORNING DRUNK OFF YOUR ASS AND LAY SOME CRYPTIC LIFE CHANGING SHIT ON ME AND THEN HANG UP? JUSTIN?! WHAT ABOUT THE PHONE SEX?!"

\--------------------

"And now you know. We wanted to tell you in person before Jenny and I leave for Florida." Melanie brushes a tear from her cheek and looks out onto your moonlit pool, struggling to keep it together. Then she turns to Gus and tugs on his arm. "How about you give me a grand tour of this gorgeous house? I've only seen a couple of rooms down here on the first story." 

Lindsay watches her son open the sliding glass door for his other mom and lead her inside. Sighing audibly, she shifts in her lawn chair to face you and Brian on the A-frame swing. "She wants some time alone with him to say good-bye. Accepting that position out of state was tough for her, but she's determined to get away and start over."

"Do you need money?" Brian fires up the nightly cigarette and inhales sharply before he hands it off to you. 

Savoring a single pull of tar and nicotine, you drop it into your empty beer bottle, the one-drag-three-times-a-day-for-each-of-you approach working pretty well as you wean yourselves from the habit together. "Yeah, if there's anything we can do, just name it."

"Thanks, but I'm okay." Lindsay takes a swig of her own beer, apparently mistaking your patio for a therapist's office. "Mel keeps saying I haven't tried very hard to save our marriage. But if you want to know the truth, there was nothing left to save. We've fallen out of love." 

Brian holds his tongue for all of five seconds. Five more than you expected. "So love's dead in Muncher Land. What a bitch." He weaves his arm around your shoulders and scooches you a little closer to him, unmistakable code for it being alive and well in Queerville. 

"This place is huge. You guys have made it into a beautiful home." Melanie's eyes are red when she comes back outside with Gus. Their last evening together until who knows when is tinged with sadness, but exploring every square foot of Britin with her personal tour guide is one of the many memories of him she'll take to her new life. "Cool aquarium in Gus's room. I guess they were out of the small ones the day you bought it?"

That makes you laugh. "You know Brian. He never does anything small. Now we just have to get Gus to clean it by himself. We're working on that, aren't we, Gus?"

"Yeah. I almost did the whole tank by myself last time, remember?"

Melanie hugs her son. "I'm glad I came out here tonight. Lindsay and I did agree he's at the age when he needs to live with his fathers, but it's nice to see for myself how happy he is." She makes eye contact with Brian first and then you. "Gus is thriving, and I thank you both for that." 

"Gee, Melanie. I don't detect a trace of the deep and abiding resentment you've held toward me all these years." Your husband's tone is remarkably snark-free. "Could it be, perhaps, a thing of the past?"

"Dead and buried. No hard feelings, huh, Brian?" 

"No hard feelings."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Melanie gets her bag from the chaise where she left it, gearing up to leave. She only has one question. "I just wanna know how the hell you guys can keep any domestic help in this mansion with that emotional, bloodstained painting hanging in the butler's pantry?"


	10. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER NINE

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THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER NINE

Fury. Indignation. Outrage and hurt. The jumble of emotions punches you in the gut, your mind swimming with confusion as to what it all means. Surely you misheard him or didn't understand. He couldn't have just said—

"I said you can't move back home now, Justin. It's not the right time. I'm not . . . We haven't . . ."

Okay, now you're irate. You don't hear him blabbering his next line of shit because of all the steam blowing out of your ears. It has to go somewhere. If it doesn't, your head'll explode.

"Hello? Justin?"

"Fuck you, Brian! Last time I checked, I was the one in charge of my life, not you! How can you tell me not to come home?"

"Listen, I gotta get to a staff meeting. I'll call you later."

Your phone is damaged beyond repair when it crashes into the wall above your kitchen sink and lands in a bowlful of water with a loud plop. You stand there cursing at the fucking thing before you storm out of your loft and slam the door. Walking the streets of SoHo in a rage, you finally stop at a sidewalk cafe, scowling into a bottle of beer while you analyze yet again what just went down with your boyfriend. 

If you can even call him that. What the hell have you been doing for the last seven years? Somehow making a long-distance relationship work, as you've always thought, or merely fucking whenever you get the chance? Is that all he thinks it is? You've never questioned his love for you until now, the chunk of doubt in the pit of your stomach expanding by the minute.

"Another Heineken for you?" The waiter shows up on your last gulp, his flawless timing due to the fact that he's been cruising you hard ever since you sat down.

Lost in misery, you hadn't noticed. "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks." You relax your furrowed brow and smile at him. Cute. Definitely cute. You might be receptive under normal conditions, but your knotted insides won't hear of it.

Besides, hooking up isn't any fun unless you spend the entire dalliance anticipating its retelling to Brian the next time you talk. Or make love. But now who the fuck can say when either will occur again. More like _if_ either will occur again. Drowning the problem in alcohol doesn't help, so you pick yourself up and trudge back to your loft, descending into a funk you just can't shake.

You don't know exactly how or when you changed, but the unbridled enthusiasm you always held for New York had gradually started to ebb. You found yourself fighting the city of packed subways and sky-high rents more often than embracing it, the daily hassles gobbling up your creativity a lot of the time and frustrating you to no end. Breakfasts were tasteless. Painting felt empty. Lonely nights, the price you willingly paid for a successful career, became unbearable. After endless bouts of soul-searching, you knew it was time to go.

But broaching the subject with Brian on the phone earlier had been a disaster of epic proportions. One that you certainly didn't see coming. How can he not want you back in Pittsburgh? 

Days later, your anger scaled down to a dull heartache, you take Meg to a trendy Midtown place for lunch and break it to her over ice cold glasses of lemonade. One of your major concerns is laid to rest when she goes for your idea of how to keep your gallery open. You both order rich desserts and hammer out the details in twenty minutes.

If everything else falls into place this swiftly, you'll be home by Christmas.

\--------------------

"Come on, Justin. Rise and shine." Your husband turns to look at the clock on his nightstand. "Aren't they going to be here in forty-five minutes?"

"I can't. You feel too good. Lie here with me a little longer." You'd pay a king's ransom right about now in exchange for the natural cessation of time, but you know you're in the midst of a losing battle when he inches out of your grasp and his feet hit the floor.

"I'll warm up the shower."

A graceless, unbecoming grunt is your answer to that. Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and squelches his urge to call you a drama queen. He's brushing his teeth by the time you sleepwalk into the bathroom to piss, hot vapor wafting through the air and leaving a foggy mirror in its wake. You contort your face into a gaping yawn, flush the toilet, and question your sanity. Why in hell did you ever schedule this transport to take place so early?

No wonder Brian's so chipper. He's probably been crossing off the days. He sticks his minty-fresh tongue in your mouth when you nearly collide in front of the shower, then he opens the door and pulls you inside with him. Pouring expensive body wash on your chest, he works it into a sudsy lather.

You may have had to drag yourself out of bed to supervise the packing and shipping of your masterpiece-turned-colossal-headache to downtown Pittsburgh, but his slippery fingertips rubbing your nipples into erect stubs as the hot water pings off your back wakes you up in a hurry. Your dicks thickening and bobbing upward, you can't stop yourself from running your right hand through the soap he's whipped up and clasping it around his shaft. "Too bad we don't have time to fuck in here."

"This is good." Brian kisses your lips under the steamy spray while you tug and twist and knead, moaning softly when his come eddies down the drain in record time. The gleam in his eye is blinding. "Who says you're not a morning person?"

\--------------------

"Justin?" Your mom waits for a minute and then calls up the staircase again. "Justin, Daphne's here!" She gets no response because your music's cranked full blast, but she tells your best friend and cohort in crime to go on up anyway.

A permanent fixture in your life for the past year, Daphne breezes into your room and tosses her backpack on the bed. She chatters away while you show her your new CD's, both of you set to hang out as if it were a typical Thursday afternoon. A little gossip, a little raiding the fridge, a little studying for your driver's tests—

And then your eyes land on her unzipped bag and its contents spilling out everywhere. "Oh, my God, Daph! What's that?"

"What?"

You point to the item in question, not believing what you're seeing. "A pack of cigarettes? Where'd you get it?"

"Shhh!" She quietly closes your door. "My uncle left it at my house. No one knows I snagged it."

"Have you tried one?" An inkling of what's going to happen plays out in your head when she admits she's smoked two already. "No shit?! What's it like?"

"Well, I had to drop the first one and mash it into the dirt 'cause I coughed so bad I thought I was gonna throw up. But the second one was better."

You sit on your bed and wedge a Marlboro between your fingers. It makes you feel all grown up. "Let's tell my mom we're gonna be at your house. I gotta try it."

Thank God the neighborhood park's empty. You climb up to the top of the slide and settle in next to each other, ten feet above the ground for your secret deed. 

Daphne pulls the cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket. "It hurts like hell the first time. You're gonna cough."

"No, I won't." Self-confidence has always been your middle name. Instilled in you from early childhood by attentive, supportive parents, it's the reason you succeed at pretty much anything you try. You place a cigarette between your lips and light the end of it, coolly sucking in.

To say you're not prepared for the war your sixteen-year-old lungs wage against the fire you've breathed into them would be the mother of all understatements. Cross-eyed with suffocation, you gasp for air, ignoring Daph's 'told ya so' while a violent choking jag wracks your body.

Your throat isn't the only thing burning, though.

The rude awakening that not everything is easy just because you set your mind to it stings your healthy ego, yet you're not about to give up. You observe the way she inhales and practice until you can blow out a long stream of smoke without coughing your head off. It gets smoother every time. "Okay, I got it. Let's have another one."

Daphne giggles and reaches for the cigarettes. "I can't believe how persistent you are, Justin." She nudges your shoulder with hers. "It's inspiring."

Fierce determination. Dogged perseverance. You have no idea how valuable these character traits are going to be a year from now in the hot pursuit of all you've ever wanted.

\--------------------

Your sister's car idles in the passenger pick up area while she confirms your flight's arrival on her phone. She's just about to circle around again so the traffic cop won't hassle her when she looks out the window one more time and spots you. At least she thinks the weary guy making his way toward her with all that luggage is you. She jumps out of her Volkswagen Beetle when she's sure. "Hey, you really did it! You're finally coming home after making it big in New York!" 

"Something like that." You laugh and give her a quick hug. Lifting your suitcases into the trunk, you're thankful the former bane of your existence has volunteered to drive to the airport at such a hectic time of year. It's actually good to see her. "Thanks for coming to get me. I guess Mom's crazy busy?"

"Mom is fucking freaking out trying to get ready for tomorrow. She invited some friends from her real estate office to have Christmas dinner with us. Hope you don't mind going straight over there. I told her I'd help with the cooking and baking."

"Yeah, that's fine." As if you have anywhere else to go. Your mom does have a few houses lined up to show you, but you want to take your time looking for a home of your own and make a sound investment. Until then, you'll be staying in her extra bedroom.

You climb in and fasten your seat belt, looking over at Molly while she waits for an opening and pulls away from the curb. Focusing solely on her for the first time in well, ever, it doesn't take long to see she literally grew up while you were gone. What was she? Like fifteen when you left? You know next to nothing about her. "So how's school? What's your major again?"

"Used to be Computer Science. I had to drop out last semester 'cause our asshole father quit paying."

"Jesus. That brings back memories."

"It's okay. I'll finish later, after I save up some money." She thinks about it and shrugs. "Mom told me when you opened up your own gallery in New York. I've always wanted to go and see it, but work and classes kind of tied me down, you know?"

It's funny how you don't recall ever having a meaningful conversation with your sister before. You're tired, but it's nice to relate to her on an adult level. "Yeah, we've got a pretty good thing going. Business has been great ever since we opened four years ago."

Molly glimpses at you through her sunglasses. "We?"

"Meg and me. She's my agent and a good friend of mine. She runs Taylor Art for me so I can concentrate on painting. Maybe you can come with me sometime when I go back to check on things and you can meet her and see the place."

"Seriously? You'd let me come with you? I'd love that!"

"Why not? I'll probably put in an appearance three or four times a year to see how the new format's working out. After I decided to move back to Pittsburgh, we turned it into a place where kids right out of school can show their work and not have to wait for a big break to show in one of the older galleries. Meg said she loved helping me get established so much that she wants to do it for other young artists, too."

"That's really cool, Justin. I can't wait to see it."

"I'll send a couple of pieces there every month for Meg to sell. My paintings will keep our buyers coming in to look, and then they'll be exposed to all the new artists' work. We don't know of any other gallery that does that."

"Amazing. You guys are doing an awesome thing for people who might not have anywhere else to sell their art." Flipping her right blinker on, Molly turns off the highway and comes to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. You're waiting at the light when she decides to ruin your day. "So what's up with you and Brian? Mom says you won't talk to him?"

You stare at her with your jaw hanging open. Just when you'd finally convinced yourself you didn't care anymore, too. "How the fuck does Mom know what's going on with Brian and me?"

"Oh. I thought she told you." Molly reaches for her soda in the cup holder and sips at it most annoyingly, a torturous thirty seconds elapsing before she makes another peep. "Brian's been calling her a lot. He says your phone number is disconnected or some weird thing?"

"My phone, uh, broke. I do everything by e-mail."

"Yeah, he's pissed about that, too. Apparently, you don't reply to any of his e-mails."

Perfect. First he tells you not to come home, and now you find out he's the one who's pissed? That is so fucked up. 

Almost as fucked up as your not caring act. 

\--------------------

_"ART IS NOT WHAT YOU SEE, BUT WHAT YOU MAKE OTHERS SEE." - Edgar Degas_

 

You sign the work order and pay the movers in cash, breathing a sigh of relief now that your precious painting will be safe here and out of the way. Eternally grateful to Lindsay for offering to keep it in a closed off storage room at the Bloom Gallery, you thank her again when she joins you in the dimly lit space with two cups of fresh coffee.

"It's no problem. Really. Sidney would have come up with the idea himself if he were still here."

"I should probably trash it, but I can't. Something won't let me."

Lindsay evokes her inner art teacher and thoughtfully inspects the piece, which is propped against the wall beside a clunky old desk she'd recently replaced in her office with a new French Provincial one. "It's mesmerizing, Justin. The dream-like hues. Your impeccable technique. Regardless of the tragic subject matter, it's a stunning work."

"I just wish I knew what to do with it." You scratch the side of your head and drink more coffee, nodding while she assures you it'll stay right where it is until you decide otherwise. You're not surprised when she veers off into more lucrative territory as soon as the conversation permits, namely how prepared you happen to be for your upcoming show.

Immersed in a deep discussion about the themed series you've almost completed, neither of you is aware of the couple pushing their toddler in his stroller early Saturday morning out in front of the gallery. Stopping to glance up at its sign, they check out what fine art they can spy through the windows.

"Hey, maybe we should get an oil painting for the living room. I've always wanted something over the sofa. What do you think?"

"I think I've never thought about it before. I build homes for a living, Tamara. I don't decorate 'em."

"Let's go inside and look around."

That's the last thing on earth Tamara's husband would like to do. "I gotta get home and watch the game. Just come back Monday and buy anything you want."


	11. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER TEN

  
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(many thanks to the amazing for my beautiful banner)

 

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - CHAPTER TEN

Your mother's real estate friends are likable and witty. One of them even talks Renaissance Art with you over cocktails, the irresistible aroma of a soon-to-be-served Christmas feast filling the house. All in all, it's good to be home, especially a few minutes later when Molly brings the last of the side dishes into the dining room and urges everyone to gather round. Your taste buds are already thanking you. 

Curiously, there's an extra place setting next to your mom after she, you, Molly, and the four guests take a seat. You're just about to ask her if she's expecting anyone else when the doorbell rings. 

"Oh!" She jumps up. "I'll get that. But please, everybody, go ahead and start. Don't let the food get cold." 

A green and silver bow adorns the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon he presents to his hostess at the door, their hello kiss and warm embrace contrasting starkly with the displeasure she'd once held toward him. Long past their thorny beginnings, she's truly happy to see him, taking his arm and pulling him in from the cold. 

"Fashionably late for dinner!" she teases, hanging his coat in the entry closet. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Give me your firstborn son? Just a thought."

Entertaining a thought or two of your own, you cut into the slab of HoneyBaked ham on your plate and pop a bite into your mouth. Let them have their mutual admiration society. Let them have their schemes and their plots. Whatever they've cooked up won't inspire you to roll over anytime soon. Working through the anger had been one thing, but you still have issues. Issues with the flawlessly handsome man striding up to the table with your mom. 

"I'd like you all to meet Brian Kinney," she says to her guests. "Justin's boyfriend. Brian, these are my friends Sue and Donna. They work with me. And this is John and his wife, Denise. John owns the real estate company."

"Nice to meet everyone." Natural charm oozes from every inch of his body as he acknowledges the women, Sue and Donna trying their best not to gawk. 

Denise doesn't care. She stares openly while he shakes hands with her husband, 'Where've you been all my life?' screaming from her features. 

Brian continues around the table, saying a quick hi to Molly before he pauses at your side. Bending down, he swoops in for a kiss, taking what he wants with unflinching confidence. He grins at you afterward. "Hey."

You watch him absorb the sugary glaze from the ham. "What are you doing here?" 

"I believe it's called sharing the holiday with family and friends. Mother Taylor invited me." Brian heads for the vacant chair, everyone but you enjoying the show. "You'll have to excuse Justin," he deadpans. "He's a little ticked at me right now." He sits by your mom and lays his napkin in his lap, thanking her as she slides a couple of serving bowls toward him.

"Oh, my God, Brian. Are you serious?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

You guess you're doing this. Right here. Right now. "Do you even remember the last thing you said to me?"

"That I had to get to a staff meeting?" 

"Before that, dipshit."

He's always liked you feisty, refusing to take crap from anyone, including him. "Ah, well, I never had a chance to finish. I tried to call you back as soon as the meeting was over, but your phone wasn't working. Still isn't, by the way. I actually have a very good reason for what I said. You just don't know what it is yet because you read e-mail from everybody in the world except me." 

"Jesus, Brian." Draining half your water goblet, you clunk it down in front of yourself and shoot him a look he knows better than to fuck with. "You have a very good reason for not wanting me to come home? Do grace us with your pearls of wisdom."

"No pearls. Plenty of wisdom, though." He picks at the candied yams on his plate, pushing them around with his fork. Eating them never occurs to him. "Look, you have every right to be upset, Justin. I take full blame for this . . . this crazy mess that somehow spiraled out of control before I could explain." Searching your face, he hopes for a shred of understanding. "But I can fix it now." 

"You can fix it now." 

"Yeah. I can totally clear this whole thing up. All you have to do is come with me. There's something I have to show you." 

_. . . show you . . . show you . . ._ Awash in deja vu, reality stands still while you fly down the highway in his Vette, no clue where you're going. _Less than half an hour out of Pittsburgh . . . Taking a chance on love . . . Never meant anything more . . ._

What the hell does he have up his sleeve this time? Your eyes penetrate his. You just know his lips are going to press against each other before they twitch upward at the corners and form a whisper of a smile. 

Your pissy attitude begins to crumble when they do exactly that.

Merry Christmas to you.

\--------------------

"I really hope I haven't done the wrong thing here. I mean it's such a personal work with a tremendous emotional hold on him. We've been keeping it in the storage room, but somehow she wandered in there and found—"

"Lindsay, Christ! What are you talking about?" Your partner signs the last document in Ted's folder and signals for him to close his office door on his way out. "What the fuck are you saying?" he barks into his phone.

Already stretched incredibly thin on this busy Monday morning at the Bloom Gallery, Lindsay sighs and starts over. "Justin's painting. The one he didn't know what to do with. A young woman was in here earlier with her toddler, and she asked me where the restroom was when she needed to change him. I guess I'd accidentally left the door to the storeroom open and she'd wandered in and looked around because she came back out and said she wanted to buy it. I told her several times that one isn't for sale, but she was adamant about purchasing it. I broke down in the end and said I'd speak to the artist and get back to her."

He has no time for this, as his loud groan indicates. "And you're telling me this why?"

"I'm asking your opinion, Brian. Do you think Justin should know someone's interested in buying it? As far as he's concerned, it was never supposed to be seen by the public. It was tucked away safe and sound, both physically and mentally. I don't want to . . . open up old wounds . . ." 

The first thing you notice when you enter your husband's inner sanctum at Kinnetik is the absence of any audible conversation even though he's holding his cell phone to his ear. The second is the pained look on his face. He can't be conducting business in this state, and you wonder if that's good or bad. Unwinding the scarf around your neck, you raise an inquisitive brow when he snaps out of it and focuses on you. 

"I'll talk to him, okay? He just walked in. Bye, Linds." Brian glances at the time before he leans forward in his chair, your lips meeting together midway over his desk. "You're early. We said lunch at eleven forty-five."

"I'm having a for shit day in the studio. Thought we could leave now and drink our way through lunch at Woody's. Talk to me about what?"

That look again. Uneasy and pensive. Procrastinating as long as he can, Brian finally joins you on the other side of the desk. "Let's sit down." He takes you by the hand and walks to the sofa.

What if they were discussing Gus going back to live with her again? That would seriously bite because you've grown quite attached to your little family of three.

Brian pulls you down with him, practically onto his lap. He pats his shirt pocket out of habit, but his cigarettes aren't there. Haven't been since you helped each other quit. He takes a deep breath. "That was Lindsay."

"Yeah, I kind of gathered as much when I heard 'Bye, Linds.' What'd she say?"

More hesitation, but you've never been so happy to see that classic Brian Kinney smirk emerge a few seconds later. 

"You know, drinking our way through lunch is a fabulous idea. Let me just get Cynthia to cancel—" 

"Fuck, no! I'm not moving until you tell me what's going on. What the fuck did Lindsay say?"

"She said someone wants the housekeeper repellent. A girl saw it in the storeroom at the gallery and kept insisting she wants to buy it. Lindsay told her that one's not for sale, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. Now she's waiting to hear back from Lindsay whether or not the artist will relent and consider selling." Your husband stops as abruptly as he'd begun, ready to provide any level of comfort and support you might need. Keenly aware of the sleeping monster he's most likely riled, he's prepared for any reaction.

Except the one he gets. 

It starts with a giggle and quickly grows, your eyes twinkling with relief. You throw your arms around him and squeeze. "So Gus can stay?" 

"Huh?"

"She doesn't want Gus back? It's only about the stupid painting?" You kiss him through your laughter with a loud smack. 

"Stupid painting?" He shakes his head. "Stupid painting?! Justin, that thing's been a noose around our necks for the past year! All the pain and anguish it's caused? All your dark moods and mysterious behavior? Fuck! I've been weirded out ever since that first time you showed it to me." Brian turns and looks through his office window, nothing but the image of a blood-soaked canvas staring back at him. He almost winces. "Three cooks and five housekeepers have walked out on us because they couldn't handle it, and now it's stupid?"

You spend less than a minute in contemplation, your thoughts never clearer. "Hard to believe, isn't it? But I think it's served its purpose. I relived the horror of the bashing over and over again every single time I worked on it, but you know what? That's how I got my memory back. And now? All the fears and hang-ups that prick Hobbs left me with seem so distant. Mollified. Laid to rest." 

Your spoken thoughts are music to your ears, rolling off your tongue so easily. That's when you catch on they're coming from a place that hadn't existed until this very moment. A place of beauty. A place of peace. A place of healing. "It's like I'm free, Brian. I'm thirty fucking years old, and I'm finally free."

\--------------------

"Tonight? Sorry, Mom. I've got plans. You're gonna have to find someone else to brat sit for you." There's no way you're going to get roped into staying home with your ten-year-old sister tonight. No way in hell. Not after the many weeks you've spent immersed in introspection, wrestling with your deepest, darkest, most titillating desires. No, most certainly not now, after you've finally worked up enough courage to act on them. It's taken guts, but you've come to a firm, calculated decision: tonight's the night, and you're not backing down. Shit! You've even got the bus route from your neighborhood in the suburbs to downtown all mapped out. 

Hearing the pastry box on the kitchen counter calling your name, you lift the lid and peek in. "Can't you get Annie to come over?"

"Justin, how many times have your father and I asked you to stop calling Molly a brat? And you never told me about any plans. Where are you going?"

You're a senior in high school for fuck's sake. You can't have plans she doesn't know about? Stuffing half a doughnut in your mouth buys you some time. "Daphne. Uh, Daphne's house. We need to study for a test. There's a big Chemistry test tomorrow." You brush the crumbs off your uniform tie. "And I'm spending the night with her."

Your mom sighs, somewhat disappointed, reaching for the phone on the wall. "I guess I can call Annie. Heaven forbid you get a B on a test." Sarcasm. It doesn't look good on her. But she laughs soon enough. "I'm kidding. Your dad and I have always been proud of you and your straight A's. You're a good son." 

Ouch. That jolts your brain. Would they still be proud if they had the slightest inkling of what goes on in there? You pour yourself a tall glass of milk and gulp it down while she books the babysitter. Enduring a motherly peck on your forehead before she hurries off to pick up the brat from Brownies, you're just glad she's gone when Daphne knocks on the back door.

"Hey."

"Hey, Daph. Come on in. Want a doughnut?" 

Daphne eyes the pink box and nearly swoons. "God, yesss! I'm PMS-ing so bad!" 

"It's uncanny how you always find a way to tell me that." You close the door behind her while she skips over to check out the sweets. 

"Want to hang out tonight? Dirty Dancing's gonna be on at nine. We haven't seen it in awhile." 

"Tonight?" Jesus! One fucking night away is all you want. "I can't tonight. My mom. She um, needs me to babysit my sister." Out-and-out lying. To both of them. You prefer to think of it as craftiness since there's really no other way to pull this off.

Daph scoops up an eclair and savors the first bite. Then she frowns at you. "Dirty Dancing _is_ kind of an old movie. It's just that Patrick Swayze's hot. For an old guy. Sorry you're gonna be stuck home with the brat."

"It sucks." Thankfully, she'll cover for you if your mom calls her house. Just as you've covered for her plenty of times. It's a best friend thing, which is why you'll definitely come clean to her tomorrow morning at school when this is all over. 

Yeah, Daphne's cool. She'll get it. She won't freak the fuck out when she learns of your secret venture down to Liberty Avenue, your city's mecca for all manner of things audacious and queer. Unlike your mom, who'd absolutely, positively, without a doubt kill you if she knew you were gay. 

"Hey, Daph? Want some milk with that?"

\--------------------

_"ART IS THE ONLY WAY TO RUN AWAY WITHOUT LEAVING HOME." - Twyla Tharp_

 

You'd helped yourself to seconds and lingered over coffee and Molly's homemade apple pie, happy to see Brian enjoying his food also once he sensed Desert Storm coming to an end. But then, shocking no one, it'd been time to leave. 

Like a well-oiled machine, you moved in unison, a single beckoning glance from your boyfriend's soul into yours sparking a flurry of holiday sentiments and good-bye hugs for all. And yes, for the record, you've always known the telepathic-like private communication you share with him is a beautiful gift to possess. 

Almost as beautiful as the one that's waiting for you at the top of a certain country residence.

"It's empty in here. What happened to the Hendersons?" You knew where he was taking you this time. The only mystery was why? Giving up needling him about halfway through the familiar trip, you figured it was useless when every inquiry you made was met with the same mischievous grin. Now you're standing in the very room where he proposed marriage what seems like a lifetime ago, bursting with curiosity. "They moved out?"

"Yes, they moved out. They kind of had to since I didn't renew their lease." Brian tosses his keys onto the mantel above the fireplace and turns to face you. He reaches for both of your hands and holds them in his. "I told them I was going to stop renting it to them when their lease was up at the end of October."

"What? Why?"

"Because, well, let's just say I felt a change was coming and I wanted to be prepared for it? I heard it in your voice every time we talked on the phone or saw each other the past six months. You were becoming so disillusioned with the rat race of living and working in New York. I knew it wouldn't be long till you decided to leave, and . . ." He rubs at a phantom itch on his chin before taking your hand again. "You've established yourself in the art world to such an extent that it doesn't matter where you paint now. This is our home, Justin, and I was hoping you'd come back to the Pitts and be ready to live in it. With me. You know, together." Brian stifles the catch in your breath with kisses. Then he lowers his forehead to rest on yours. "Remember when you said it was all you'd ever dreamed of?" 

How could you forget? The love of your life had bought his prince this palace. Heady stuff for a young adult newly braving it out on his own. Your heart pounds in your chest almost as hard as it did that day seven years ago. "You wouldn't believe the dreams I've had of this place. Of us in this place. It's just that—"

"Wait!" His index finger shoots up to press against your lips. "Hold that thought. I brought you here to show you something, so not another word until you see it." He leads you over to the mansion's majestic staircase and tows you by the arm higher and higher, beyond the second floor landing and all the way up to the attic. Finally stopping in front of a closed door, he twists the knob and slowly pushes it open. His sly grin is back. "Now tell me if it's all you've ever dreamed of." 

"Holy fuck, Brian! What have you done?" Gaping in disbelief, you ought to pinch yourself or something, but you're too busy trying to process the vision he's just revealed in this vast upper room. Easels and work tables in front of all five dormer windows. Dozens of canvases in a variety of sizes and at least as many stretchers along the walls. Your eyes widen as you scan the polished hardwood flooring from one end to the other, gradually raising your line of sight and admiring the massive sloping ceiling beams. "Skylights! You had skylights installed?!" 

"An artist needs natural sunlight. Or so I've been told. Are you gonna stand here in the doorway all night, or are you gonna go in and check out your new studio?" A full-on blinding smile covers his face when you wrap yourself around him. 

You want to spend eternity kissing it into submission.

"Hey, hey!" Brian gently wrangles free from your embrace and guides you inside. "Come on. I want you to see it. Tell me if everything works. We can change anything you don't like." 

"This is unbelievable! _You're_ unbelievable, you know that?" Exploring every square foot of the space in detail with Brian close behind, you find buckets of brushes and knives everywhere you look and multiple cabinets overflowing with enough jars and tubes of color to last you forever. Cans of remover and turpentine and every other chemical you'll ever need have been placed on nearby open shelves. Boxes of rags are stacked by the sink. "You had the attic plumbed!? How long ago did you start this project?"

"Last month. They told me they'd have it done in two weeks, but the contractor still hasn't built the bathroom or run the duct work for the heating and central air system. I should have fired him, but he's hot." 

"Oh, my God! A bathroom? Where?" Your eyes follow his pointing finger into the farthest corner. One side of your face is scrunched up when you look back at him. "I don't get it." 

"What don't you get?" Brian makes himself comfortable on the black leather couch he picked out specifically to fit in a recessed niche. "You won't have to track paint all the way down to the second floor to piss. I thought of that myself. Lindsay helped me with a lot of other things, though. Made sure I ordered the right supplies and equipment to get you started in a new location. I told her as much as I could remember about your loft in SoHo." 

"You know what I don't get. I love that you did this for me, and I could never begin to thank you enough. But . . ." 

He pats the spot next to his leg and waits for you to nestle in beside him. "I know you were hurt, Justin. That's why you hadn't talked to me in weeks until I showed up at your mom's today. But I said I take the blame for everything. Said it in a roomful of witnesses, too. What more do you want?" 

You're eerily quiet, asking yourself the same question. Will thoughts of the recent tempest ever stop boiling under your skin? "You told me not to come home. Why'd you do that if you wanted us to live here together and you were already making me this amazing studio? And bathroom. I was so angry. Then I just felt crushed. I really thought we were over." 

"I know. That was the first thing to go horribly wrong in this series of unfortunate events." Enveloping your torso, he holds you fast within his arms. "I wanted to surprise you with a completely finished kick-ass space when you got here, and that was the day they informed me it wouldn't be done until after New Years. It sounds like such a lame reason for everything to get blown out of proportion so badly, but it's the truth. I was going to talk to you as soon as my staff meeting was over and make up some excuse why it would be better for you to move home after the holidays, but—"

"But I'd shattered my phone in pieces when I threw it against the wall." 

"And then you ignored all my e-mails." 

You wonder if the fucking universe has any simpler lessons to impart. The complicated ones are about to do you in. Clinging to his body, you kiss him softly. The only thing you know for certain is you'll never let go. "God, Brian. What's it been? Twelve years? Will we ever get this right?" 

"Probably not." He plants one more peck on the lips that'll never stop driving him wild. "But we can move into our country manor with the stables and the pool, _and_ your almost completed studio and bathroom, and spend the rest of our lives figuring it out." 

\--------------------

"You really want to do this? It's not too late to reconsider." Brian laces his fingers through yours as you walk into the Bloom Gallery together, his tight clasp on your hand just another example of the unwavering support system he's been. "We can get back in the car and leave if you're having second thoughts about selling."

You smile at your husband, loving him for playing objective sounding board all week while you hashed and rehashed your decision. "I'm fine. Honestly. I told you. We set the cost outrageously high because of the piece's inherent value to me, which kicked the ball into this girl's court. If she buys it, that's great, and if she doesn't buy it, that's okay, too. I only asked Lindsay to schedule a meeting with her today so I can find out for myself what kind of a nut job likes my disturbing art." 

"Hmmph." It sounds more like a snort than he intends. "And now you agree it's disturbing. Whatever happened to magical? Cathartic? How many times have I heard you sing praises to the most uplifting canvas you've ever painted?" He could go on. And on, if not for the palpable side-eye boring into his skin.

You're still smiling, though, pausing just outside of Lindsay's office. "Let's get through this meeting, all right? Then it won't matter what we call it 'cause I'm gonna throw the damn thing out if she doesn't have the money. I know it's a monstrosity, Brian. I've known all along." Rising on tiptoe, you throw a speedy kiss onto his lips. A long sigh emanates from under your breath when you turn to go in. "It's an eerie fucking monstrosity."

"Your words, dear, not mine." He follows you through the door, unable to resist a playful swat to the bubble butt swishing in front of him.

"Here's our famous artist now! I knew he wouldn't keep you waiting!" Lindsay appears to be soaring sky-high on happy drugs at first glimpse, fawning all over the young woman sitting on the opposite side of her desk as if she were royalty. "Justin! Right on time! This is Tamara. She adores your work."

Flashing your trademark grin, you approach the fair-haired girl and shake hands. She looks about the same age as you. "Hey. Nice to meet you. This is my partner, Brian." 

He barely manages a friendly 'Hi' before Lindsay's off and running again. 

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Tamara, but Mr. Taylor's currently the most noted painter in Pittsburgh. You only need to Google him to learn of his early career successes in New York and the long list of esteemed galleries he's shown in over the years." 

She smells dollar signs. You've been in business with her long enough to know. Thank fuck you're into creating art, not selling it. Especially your own. You'd go crazy if your bottom line depended on shameless promotion every hour of the day. 

Although Tamara isn't put off in the least. "Yeah, I've read all about you and your impressive background, Mr. Taylor. That's how I discovered the Taylor Art website. Your gallery in New York looks awesome. But it's a painting I saw here that I need to buy. The red one." 

The red one. How novel. Now why haven't you and Brian simply been referring to The Red One all this time? You don't even bother to sit. "The red one?"

"Oh, I've often been lost inside its profoundly deep scarlets and crimsons! In fact, the sanguinary nature of—" 

You cut Lindsay off mid-sentence with a quickly raised open palm in her direction, keeping your focus on Tamara. "You've been informed of the hefty price tag, I assume? I just can't let it go for less than that. It means too much to me."

"Price is no object, Mr. Taylor. My husband's construction company has really taken off this year, so we're financially comfortable. Not to brag or anything, but we're more than comfortable. I'm redecorating my living room in red, and your painting will be ideal over the sofa. I knew the minute I found it I had to have it." 

Yes, you heard correctly. You can't make this shit up. She needs your red nightmare for her new red living room. Who are you to argue? You look over at Brian, who's sprawled on the love seat in the corner. "She has to have it."

Brian's face comes alive, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. "She has to have it."

"Well, then." Lindsay laughs a little along with the girl in front of her. "I guess you have to have it! Congratulations, Tamara. You've just bought a Justin Taylor original."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Tamara thrusts her hand out, shaking with you again to seal the deal. "I love it! The color's perfect!"

"Wonderful. I'm happy it works for you." Seems you just made six figures off a girl who likes red. Is Brian actually gloating? "Um, I think I'll let Lindsay finish this up if you don't mind, Tamara, 'cause Brian and I are late for our next appointment. But, hey, thanks for coming in today." You nod at Lindsay then give your husband the eye. "Come on, Bri." 

"Our next appointment? What the fuck was that?" Brian zips up his jacket when you leave the gallery and head for the parking lot. Kissing your cheek, his Cheshire grin refuses to hide. "I thought we had the rest of the afternoon off."

You weave an arm behind his waist and pull him into your side. "Your dick's urgent appointment with my ass? You know you can't wait to get me home and fuck me silly." 

"Aah, right. And here I was afraid you had to rake in another hundred thou before we could call it a day."

"Uh-huh." 

He aims the small remote on his key ring toward the car, clicking to unlock it. 

"I'm onto you."

"Moi?" Straight face and everything. He's good. He's really good.

So are you. "Admit it, Brian. You're more turned on right now than you've ever been in your life. You've been secretly hoping for days she'd come up with the cash and get that thing out of our lives forever." Leaning backward on the passenger side door, you peer up at him through your lashes.

His eyes are closed when he sticks his tongue down your throat, your crotches scraping together. "Guilty," he whispers against your lips. "You?" 

"Guilty." 

It's been a long time since you've fucked in the car, but this is infinitely better. Funny how sucking his dick all the way to West Virginia while he steers with one hand and fondles your fully clothed ass with the other makes you feel seventeen again.


	12. THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - EPILOGUE

  
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(many thanks to the amazing for my beautiful banner)

 

THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - EPILOGUE 

 

"What a mess. Why the hell haven't we done this before now?" You unfold the top of yet another cardboard box and peek in, frowning at the random belongings you haven't seen in six months.

Brian isn't making any better headway than you are going through his long lost things. "After living without this shit all this time, we could probably get rid of it and never miss it."

"That's why I've got a throw away stack going on over here. Feel free to add to it." You'd had your life in SoHo packed up and shipped to your property in West Virginia, meeting the truck on your doorstep at the same time Brian's loft arrived in its own crates. Blending the essentials from both moving vans, you worked together to create a warm, eclectic home. Only problem seems to be the miscellaneous stuff relegated to one of the spare rooms upstairs. There'd always been something more exciting to do than deal with it. But now you have to. "We only have a week until Josh and Daphne and the twins get here for their visit. And Meg texted me this morning that she'll be able to make it, too. I knew we should have fixed up these three bedrooms sooner."

Brian lets out a small groan. "You thinking what I'm thinking? If anyone can furnish and decorate in a crunch, it's Emmett. Let's give him a call."

Your face lights up. Not only do you have the most brilliant boyfriend on the planet, but you've also just spied your favorite woolen scarf wedged between some old NYU textbooks. "I've been looking for this!"

"And you find it in July." Brian shakes his head and laughs. "Hey . . ." He digs deeper into the pile he's been sorting through and scoops up a handful of black velvet from the bottom of it. "Remember these?"

Your eyebrows arch halfway up into your forehead when you look over at him. "No, Brian. I don't remember ever seeing our wedding rings before. Or shopping for them. Or trying them on the day we picked them out. Or—"

"Okay, smart-ass. Come over here." He waits for you to set a dusty desk lamp aside and pulls you close when you cross the room. 

You'll never get tired of the way he kisses you while he palms the back of your neck. You watch him hesitate briefly then pry open the small boxes. "Gorgeous. Just like the day we bought them." Your thumb traces over the exposed surface of the slightly larger fourteen karat gold band. The one that was going to be yours. 

"See if it still fits."

"Brian."

He's already loosening both of them from their slotted nests. "All right. If you insist. I'll put mine on, too. I'm sure my slender fingers are the same size they were seven years ago."

"What are you saying? I have fat fingers?!"

"Your fingers are great, Sunshine. See?" He works your wedding ring onto your left hand and raises it to eye level between you. "Perfect." 

A swarm of butterflies awakens in the pit of your stomach when he drops his ring into your other hand. You slide it down over his tiny knuckle with halted breath. What exactly is happening? 

"We talked about having them engraved."

"We did."

"Still want to?"

You check the carpet for nonexistent stains, slowly looking back up at him. "What are we doing, Brian?"

\--------------------

Barely able to concentrate on the mountain of homework that's due the next day, you finally cross the last 't' and dot the last 'i' on your English paper and throw everything into your backpack. Eight forty-five. Your stomach says feed me, but it's time to get ready to leave. 

A shower later, you lean close to your bathroom mirror with a towel around your waist, inspecting the seventeen-year-old complexion you thought would never clear up. Smooth as silk, once you flip on your electric razor and take care of the thinly scattered whiskers that make an appearance every few days. Teetering on the brink of manhood isn't easy, but that's where your master plan comes in. Even if you have to take the bus to get there.

"Kind of late to be out, isn't it? Especially on a school night. Why don't you come home with me? No? Go on home to your mommy. Go on." 

Christ, what an asshole. Why the hell did you think a circus sideshow like Liberty Avenue was the only place to get laid again? You feel like an underage fish out of water, and you don't even know the bus schedule back to the suburbs. Some master plan.

You inhale a long drag off your cigarette and walk away from the creep, clueless, aimless, and a litany of other lesses as the sewer vapors float up from the street and swirl around you. Stopping against a lamppost, you close your eyes and try to disappear. 

And that's when he spots you. That's when your life begins. Years from now, you'll be lying in his arms in front of a crackling fire and he'll admit you'd stolen his heart on that very first night. 

The night you became a man.

\--------------------

Lindsay fires up her computer and clicks on the Bloom Gallery's sales template, positively giddy over the lucrative deal and how quickly it went down. She knows it'll be quite some time, if ever, before she gets out of the way and watches another piece utterly sell itself as yours did. With the staggering amount of work she didn't do, it almost seems wrong to pocket her cut. Typing the date in the appropriate box, she bids that thought a swift parting. Hey, no need to overthink this. "So, Tamara, if I can just get some information from you, we can have your painting delivered tomorrow before five p.m. Name, address, phone number. That kind of stuff." 

"Okay, sure." Tamara rattles off her address and phone number while she fishes in her bag through a sea of plastic credit, opting to use her American Express card to pay for the pricey addition to her living room makeover. She wonders what's up with the shift in Lindsay's demeanor when she hands over her credit card and driver's license as valid I.D.

"Hobbs?! Your name is Tamara Hobbs?" Lindsay's face turns into a big fat grimace as she instantly recalls the wrath she felt sitting in a packed courtroom and hearing the decision handed down by one sickeningly biased judge. The blatant discrimination heaped upon her and members of her community by the despicable Regular Roy still festers to this day. She thinks of your sweet, innocent, eighteen-year-old self, critically injured by Satan incarnate in such a vicious hate crime. Eyeing the pretty girl across her desk, she subtly shakes her head from side to side. It can't be. It just can't be. 

"Yeah. Why?" 

"Your little boy's so cute. I think I heard you call him Christopher that day you were asking where the restroom was and you found Justin's painting in the storeroom?" It's got to be a coincidence . . . It's got to be a coincidence . . . Lindsay writes up the transaction as if her pulse weren't racing and her mind weren't darting in a thousand different directions at once. "Is he named after your husband?" She looks up from the screen and manages a weak smile.

"Uh-huh. Chris always said he couldn't wait to have a son and raise him to be a miniature version of himself. He's getting his wish, too." Tamara laughs and pulls out a wallet-sized family photo to show Lindsay. "Some days Christopher Junior can be a real monster!"

"Oh!" Lindsay might have to throw up. "I mean, oh, I guess one monster in the family is enough." Aiming visible contempt at your former classmate's likeness, she half-expects the picture to start smoldering in his wife's hands and blister her skin. She runs the girl's card and returns it to her along with her I.D. "Pennsylvania sales tax is six percent. So on your hundred thousand dollar purchase, that's six thousand dollars. One hundred and six thousand dollars you and your husband just shelled out for Justin's work of art." 

"Yeah, I know." Tamara skews a look at Lindsay and stands to wrap up the meeting that's taken a rather odd turn. "Please thank Mr. Taylor for me again. I'm so happy he decided to sell after all."

Lindsay scoots her chair back from her desk and rises also. Offering a businesslike handshake, she plasters a phony grin over the rage. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hobbs. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that his personal masterpiece will be hanging in your home."

\--------------------

 _"FOR ME, PAINTING IS A WAY TO FORGET LIFE. IT IS A CRY IN THE NIGHT, A STRANGLED LAUGH."_ \- Georges Rouault

 

Still the most beautiful guy you've ever laid eyes on, Brian brings the fourth finger on your left hand to his lips and kisses the never-ending gold circle he's just placed on it. "You once said we don't need rings or vows to prove that we love each other, and it's true, but why should we hide these away in a drawer for another seven years? We're already married in every way that counts." His eyes pierce through yours. "Technically." He cocks his head and grins.

You want to memorize every pore in his face at this very second, but the membranes in your nose are stinging and your vision is blurred with welling moisture. Throwing your arms around his neck, you fight to keep it together. "God, I love you so much! I was just a kid when I fell in love with you, but thank fuck you waited for me to grow up. You were always there for me no matter what, mentoring, protecting, shaping who I am today. We've made it through everything, and now, just when I think it couldn't get any better, you want to be husbands." 

"Husbands. Partners. Whatever you want to call it. You know I love you, Justin. Just promise me we won't get weird." 

"Too late." You squeeze him closer. "We're already weird. Unorthodox. Uniquely screwed up. We wouldn't be us if we weren't." Brushing away a happy tear, you kiss him long and hard, your dueling tongues and traveling hands postponing project Clean Out the Guestroom for now and landing you down the hall in your bed. 

Hours later, exhausted and sated, you lie tangled together on the threshold of sleep. You've been here a million times before, and you'll be here a million times again, yet why is this so different? You close your eyes and listen. There simply are no words for the first time your married hearts beat as one. 

Maybe that's why there are dreams. Hypnotic dreams seeping into your brain, compelling you to slip from your lightly-snoring husband's grasp and follow them into the night. 

Haunting dreams you must paint.

~ ~ ~ THE END ~ ~ ~


End file.
